by L. E. Waters
I pretend not to care, but she says, “I know you are still sweet on her.”
“I harbor no feelings for Elmira.”
She narrows her eyes as I lie, then lifts her pink frosted-chin in the air, and twirls her braid. “She asks about you all the time, doesn’t think I know why. People tend to underestimate me, but I can see right through them.”
She stuffs another pastry in her mouth. I wonder how it is that she isn’t plump with such a sweet tooth.
Giving up my front, I decide to dive in. “When will she be here?”
She points over-eagerly at me. “I knew it. I knew you couldn’t have forgotten about her. Virginia isn’t half so pretty. Elmira has green eyes and Virginia has dirt-colored eyes.”
“Virginia is quite lovely—” I attempt to defend my wife, but the laughter in Rosalie’s eyes reveals me. I always thought she was devoid of observation. “What has she asked?”
“She asks how you are doing, what you’ve written, do I know whom they are about, do you love Virginia, when you are going to visit. Very nosy things.”
“Just recently?”
“No, since we were little. I’ve grown to accept it. As soon as she visits she doesn’t care about me, but she always brings lemon drops so I answer all her questions.”
I had no idea Elmira was so interested.
“Why haven’t you told me before, dear sister?”
She rolls her eyes sweetly at my suddenly endearing tone, but then kicks out her legs and shrugs. “I didn’t think about it.”
I pull out the remaining lozenges I brought along for the ride. “Cherry?” I say, dangling it in front of her. She reaches up and grabs it like a three year old. “I will bring you more next time if you tell me everything she says.”
Mrs. Mackenzie floats over and I hold my breath that Rosalie has the wherewithal to keep our conversation between us.
“Look at how many Richmonders have come to hear you, Edgar!”
“You have pulled together an impressive boodle. I’m so happy to be able to grace your party.”
“Oh, I’ve thrown this party in your honor. All to benefit you.”
“My Aunt Clemm thanks you immensely for aiding us in my pursuits.”
Mrs. Mackenzie bites her lip before flashing a nervous smile. “I fear I might have given you the impression that I was funding this visit and performance.”
The color drains from my face. “But Mrs. Mackenzie, I could never have afforded to come otherwise.”
Rosalie enjoys the conflict with a quiet giggle.
“Have no fear, Edgar. I have an even better design.” She turns my shoulder around to peer at a table stacked with pamphlets. “After you give an impassioned recitation everyone will be compelled to purchase your works. All the proceeds will go to your empty pockets.”
My anger turns to relief. “I better give a performance then.”
She smiles. “I’ll go gather the audience.”
I trail her to the grand foyer and shuffle through my poems, unsure of which will lead to the most sales, as Mrs. Mackenzie stands on the stairs drawing the crowd. A striking woman in an emerald dress halts my breath. Sea-green eyes find me from the back of the room, a slight smile assures me of her identity.
“Let me grace you all with a reading from Richmond’s own famed poet, Mr. Edgar Poe.”
I locate the poem I’ve wanted to read to her for years and I step up on my stage. I utter it only to her.
“The Song
I SAW thee on thy bridal day —
When a burning blush came o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:”
Her face trembles as I look straight at her. All her pain and guilt trickles in two delicate rivers down her beautiful face.
“And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.”
I try to reach her with my words; I can only embrace her with my tone.
“That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—
As such it well may pass—
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!”
I hold her eyes with mine and feel her quiver under the caress of my voice.
“Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o’er thee,”
I speak only to her as all the meaningless faces mistake my passion as an act.
“Though happiness around thee lay,”
I say the last words slowly for her, to her. She shakes her head back and forth, mouthing, I’m so sorry. Her crystal tears fall as she blinks.
“The world all love before thee.”
The eruption of applause breaks the intimacy of the moment—so strange that we feel so alone in such a crowd. The raving ninnies cluster about me immediately as I try to make my way through the cooing obstructions. If I can just get to her now, I can tell her that she’s still mine—
“Mr. Poe! That was wonderful! I felt it in my core.” A bosomy matron blocks my way.
“Thank you.” I attempt to step past her, but another fawning madam clutches my lapels.
“Oh, how hauntingly romantic. I felt your very pain.” At the word pain, she fondles my chest with her finger, discreetly hidden beneath my lapels.
I try to break free from her molestation, but she clings to me with eager fervor.
“Mr. Poe, I must invite you—”
“Please excuse me—”
She grasps tighter and I get on tiptoes to see over the buzzing crowd, in search of Elmira’s peacock-green dress, but the molester yanks me back close to her, the smell of her expired perfume catches in my throat and sends me into a choking fit.
“I must insist that you attend my next—”
I have to get some air—have to go find her. Where did she go?
I push the molester away so forcefully that she screams as she backs into another doting fan, but all I can say is, “I’m going to be sick. Excuse me.”
The crowd finally parts and I rush to the back of the room where she stood. However, Rosalie is only there, leaning over the refreshment table. She sticks a finger sandwich in her mouth and points out the front door.
I throw open the door in time to see her footman close the door of the coach so abruptly a corner of her dress catches in it. She collapses her head into her hands, and the coachman cracks his whip for his team to start. The footman clambers for the dickey seat.
“Elmira!” I cry, as I stumble down the many steps. “Don’t go!”
The coach still pulls away. I run after it, but when I hear the ladies file into the courtyard after me, I fall to my knees. They pull me up, fanning me with their pocket fans, and cluck like mother hens. Someone releases a cap of smelling salts and the assault brings me back in time to see the coach lanterns disappear as it turns at the end of the drive.
Chapter 32
Once off the train, I hardly feel like going home. I have to rid myself of the heartbreak before I pretend to Muddy and Virginia. A glass or two of some ale might do the trick. I send my luggage ahead to the cottage with a note I must work late before I return and nearly run into the bar. I hoist myself up on the leather-buttoned stool and take a swig that cools my searing heart. All my woes seem to be remedied by the contents of my glass. If I could find more time to enjoy some, I’d probably be a far happier man.
“Mr. Poe.” A heavy slap on my shoulders spins me around to a three-drink-in Mr. Sartain.
I raise my glass to him. “Well, I’ve returned.”
“A man of your word.” He sits beside me and orders another knickerbocker.
I notice a jeweled-cross peeking out under his unbuttoned starched shirt. “Beautiful cross. It looks ancient.” I’m sure it cost more than the cottage we’re living in.
His hand leaps to it as though he wants to keep it hidden. “Funny thing abou
t it is, I’m not even religious. Darn thing just spoke to me when I lay eyes upon it. I never leave without it.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about how you called me captain and it’s odd that you should do so. I’ve always felt the call of the seas but never answered.”
“My brother answered the siren, and it killed him.”
He puts a finger up with a sideways smile. “And that is the very reason I have stayed.” I never get used to the light in his eyes. They nearly spin with joy with each reply. “Although, there is no harm in relishing in tales from whaling ships and adventurers. I greatly enjoyed your Nantucket story.”
“Many thanks.” I think of Henry, the inspiration for the story. “It seems like a lifetime ago I wrote it.”
“I sense a heaviness about you, Poe. You do know I am three-sheets to the wind and”—he sucks in a quick burp mid-sentence—“won’t remember a stitch of this conversation tomorrow if you feel so inclined to confess.”
“A perfect confidant.” I raise my glass, needing more medicine before my tongue is loosened. “You might resent that. My mind is a moat of melancholy at present.”
“’It is a long road that has no turning.’” He clanks our glasses and out comes every woe. Something in his presence assures me of his trust and the liquor softens my senses.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
I open my eyes to a misty darkness, fog seeps into my small, open window. Clouds part, allowing moonbeams to illuminate the room. A quiet tap on my door draws my eyes; so faint I surmise it’s some imagining. Why did I leave the window open on such a dismal December night?
I peel the covers down to hop out and shut the window, the cold reaches up my nightshirt so bitterly I don’t bother to fix the latch. As I rush to get under the warmed sheets, my teeth a-chatter, I glance up the window to see Ma’s face in a heart-tearing flash. I freeze, but see it’s there no more. Again, a quiet knock beats at my door. I study the hour quickly and, by its darkest shade, judge it will be sometime before the winter sun rises. I dash out to yank the purple silk curtain across the ill-fated window to shield me from whatever waits for me outside.
I jump as the door knock grows louder, but I leap back into bed. Now I wish I slept with Virginia, or at least Catterina should warm my side tonight. The door knock sounds like a heartbeat, another entity outside the room. The ebony doorknob spins and I’m thankful I had the wherewithal to lock it before falling to sleep. Had I fallen asleep? How did I get home?
I slowly emerge from the safely of my slumber and lay my hand upon the door. I turn the now still doorknob and creak open the door, to find no one standing in the darkness.
“Ma?” I call into the depths, feeling silly when nothing calls, cries, or breathes back. I close it once again and attempt to go back to my dreaming.
My window now shakes in its jamb by a rattling, persistent quake. I pull the covers up to my chin, but the chill finds refuge deep within my bones. The window crashes open, with an upset wind that swirls inside my small room, threatening to tear my covers off. I hover beneath the downy cotton, listening for restless spirits, but I only hear a fluttering and peculiar scratching on the sill. I bend the covers down carefully, exposing my eyes, which widen at the huge, glistening raven perched upon there, purple silk fanning majestically before it.
Oh, it’s only a bird. I slip my hand out and try to shoo him from the sill. However, the movement doesn’t frighten him: he remains steady, with an unnatural stillness. The moon makes his oily feathers shine and his amber, unworldly eyes study me as though it is me he came to see, not some peculiar happenstance.
“Nagi?” I whisper.
And the bird answers, a lonely “Caw” before taking flight. A black feather floats gently down upon the sill.
Someone yanks me up by lapels and attempts to steady me although my legs feel as though they’re made of rubber.
“Edgar.” The voice intrudes into my blurred mind.
“Ehh,” is all I can produce.
A feel a faint slap on my alcohol-numbed cheek. Or did I only imagine that? I start to fall back asleep.
A harder slap.
“Edgar!”
A violent shake.
“You mustn’t lie here in the gutter.”
“Lippard?” My eyes try to open. I pull my head back, hoping the three heads I see before me would merge into one so I can make out who is disturbing me so.
“Yes, it’s me.” He grunts as he hangs me on his side. I think it’s my arm that’s around his neck, but I can’t be sure.
I try to slip off him. “Let me be. I’m so tired.”
“I’m taking you home.” He hoists me higher on his taller frame. My feet paddle at the ground like a tantruming toddler. “You will get run over here or drown in the rainwater.”
Yes, it is raining. That’s why I’m so wet.
Instantly, and I’m not clear how that can be, I’m let down to slump in my chair. I hear a man—oh yes, Lippard, that’s right—is talking to a woman. That woman comes over to me and peels off my soaked clothes. I push away the assault, but Lippard pulls my arms back as she strips me clear down to my underclothes.
“Careful, he’s been sick all over his coat and shirt,” Lippard warns.
The woman comes near my face—oh, it’s Muddy.
“Dear Muddy,” I say and she wraps a cotton blanket around me. “It is not so cruel thy early deaths passed in past’s time. But that in all the while thy early death was not mine.”
“I found him in the gutter outside the doggery,” Lippard snitches.
Muddy gives him a cup of tea. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing him home to us. You are now drenched because of your kindness.”
“This tea will warm me up enough until I can get back home. It is not such a cold night at least.”
“You are a good friend, George.”
“A terrible friend. I am fine,” I mutter.
But George laughs. “You won’t see it that way tomorrow I’m sure.”
I get up without a look to either of them, crawl up the stairs, and just make it to the foot of my bed before my eyes shut.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
A few days later, I make up my mind.
“You’re going away again?” Her cough always sends a rush of adrenaline through me. Virginia’s coughing has gotten worse over the last few months since I returned from Richmond.
“I’m going to see if prospects look promising in New York.”
She sighs. “I hated New York.”
“The air is too foul for Virginia,” Muddy says, as she hits the pillows much harder than is needed to fluff.
“That is why I said, ‘promising.’ I will be sure to obtain a cottage far from the city smog. I might even be able to find a little place by the river or sound. Wouldn’t you like some sea breezes?”
Virginia smiles. “I would like that very much.” She picks Catterina up, who hangs like a rag doll in her secure grasp. “But Catterina won’t. She won’t even eat when you’re gone.”
I take the warm, downy cat out of her hands and coil her up under my chin. “You must take good care of Virginia while I’m gone. And don’t worry her with your starving drama.”
Muddy shakes her head. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t stay here. Things are as good as they can be. We have plenty to eat and this house suits us well. Plus,”—She shakes a finger at me—“you haven’t been drinking half so much working with Graham.”
I balk at her insinuation, even though it’s supposed to be a positive. “I must leave Graham if I’m to create my own paper. And besides, my drinking is and has always been, purely within my control.”
Muddy gives me a doubting look but collapses her shoulders. “It’s just that I fear Virginia can’t take such a trip.”
“It’s only a few hours on the train, Ma.” Virginia always tries to be so optimistic. “I’ve always wanted to take the train.”
“And it is much more comforta
ble than a carriage, I assure you, Muddy.”
Muddy relents. “Go then. See what lies in New York.”
“Dr. Snodgrass will be looking in on you while I’m away and Lippard will supper with you to keep you company.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
I can’t wait for Virginia to see the cottage I find. It’s everything she asked for: a clean little cottage on a hill over-looking—not the sound as hoped—but the most picturesque valley and fields of wildflowers, with not another farm in sight. She takes a deep breath of air outside the stuffy train and some color (even though greener than we all hoped) comes back to her sweet face. Muddy keeps fanning her frantically during the stuffy carriage ride, but the smiles light up both their faces once we drive up the long drive to our new little place of solitude. Muddy loves how the morning glories climb over the front porch, their happy bashful faces welcoming us home. Two large, well-worn rockers beckon us to sit and gaze down on the blackbirds and butterflies busy in the tall reeds below.
Virginia slumps into one, removing her straw gipsy hat. “Go on in. I just need to catch my breath.” Catterina gives a feeble meow and uselessly paws the strong-lidded basket. “Take Catterina in and let her get used to the house before you let her out. She needs some air too.”
Muddy fights the urge to watch over her, but I take her inside by the elbow and she gasps when she sees the quaint, built-in cupboards, grey-blue trim around the little windows and doors, white-washed stone walls, and large stone fireplace with built-in oven. Everything is kept sparkling clean and to Muddy that is a gift. No need to scour the place immediately. No need to rid the place of forgotten filth. They left modern furniture, comfortable sitting chairs (one for each of us), bright cotton rag-rugs, feather mattresses on tight-roped beds, piles of thick unstained quilts and a small piano in the corner of the keeping room.