Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Something is very wrong. Again, reminiscent of Jane’s last day, the drive is overflowing with carriages and the house is full of women all in black—mourners. I’m too late. I walk in among whispers of “poor dear,” “charitable soul,” “long suffering,” and “the dreaded consumption.”

A presence is missing immediately from the house. I never noticed the small touch of love she added despite all her sickness and complaints. When I walk into the house, her absence looms heavy. No safety, no kind touch, no smiles over strawberry ice cream. You do not miss the weak candle until all the lights are out. As terrible and lonely as my childhood has been, it would have been far worse without her small attempts to make me comfortable.

Mr. Allan approaches me right away, bringing a somber air with him.

“Edgar, A’m afraid ye’ve missed her passing. We buried her this morning.”

I want to ask why he sent for me so late, but I’m sure he would turn it around to me having run off. How could she crumble so quickly? It’s only a month ago that she wrote me.

“Did she ask for me?”

“She was verry distraught at not seeing ye. She did all she could to cling on for ye.”

The taste of guilt is bitter and so easily heaped upon me. “I had to get permission for leave, but I came immediately.”

His steel eyes flash at the mention of the Army, and I stand a little taller. He softens. “She told me to give ye her love and that she wull one day reunite with ye in paradise.”

He lays a stiff arm behind my back, which leaves a chill, and brings me into his office. He motions for me to sit down for the first time in the leather chair across his desk, used for his guests. I sit down slowly.

“Ye’re faring well in Army I hear.”

Was there a hint of disappointment there?

“My officers are pleased with my performance and see great promise in me, sir. I earn ten dollars a month.” He gives me a respectful nod, and I take this usual opportunity to discuss something I never thought I’d broach. “I have risen as high as I can in the army. I would have to go to a school such as West Point to become an officer.”

He instinctively pats the pocket where his wallet rests. “West Point is extremely difficult to enter.”

“My lieutenant believes I stand a chance and he will recommend me whole-heartedly. But I would need to pay for a replacement to fill my place in the Army.”

“How much would a thing like that cost?”

“Twelve dollars.”

“A braw penny.” He gives little grunts, not of discouragement but of consideration. It must be the guilt leftover from Fanny’s passing that makes him say, “Ye have my full support.”

I can’t hide the shock on my face, but decide I should get out of there before he should change his mind.

“Edgar!” He calls out and I slink back, expecting him to add a price onto his unusual kindness. “Ye’ve my permission to go to town to buy some proper mourning clothes and whitever else ye might need.”

I hurry into town to send a letter of Mr. Allan’s sponsorship to my lieutenant, and then make my way to Fanny. I return once again to Shockoe Hill Cemetery and pass Jane’s grave, now blanketed in grass with no sign of what it covers.

Long forgotten.

I see the familiar dirt mound, new and noticeable, and I wonder if Fanny will be happier now, without the threat of death hovering over her. Maybe she has been sick all this time? All this time, I thought she was only imagining sufferings. All this time I thought she was insufficient, when maybe all along I was the one who was lacking. Her worried face flashes, calling to me in the hallway that night, pleading me not to go. How could I have put her through all of that? I should never have left. I have put her here.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It’s a long journey back to the Army and even more tedious to settle back into the Army’s drills, which I hadn’t realized I’d grown so accustomed to. I seek a replacement immediately, but when Mr. Allan’s letter arrives with surprisingly ample funds and a line of caution, “be prudent and careful,” the lure of all that money gets the best of me. Upon spending the night at a hotel, the noisy billiard hall below draws me and stays me with smooth liquor and cards. I win a large pot, but that is all I remember before waking up outside the hotel with my pockets turned out and empty. Without being able to pay for my room or journey home, I’m forced to tell Mr. Allan of my burglary—of course, leaving out any details of the preceding events.

I receive a letter quickly with twenty-five dollars but no note. I know enough to get on a carryall for Richmond before another night of cards can tempt me. My application arrives a week after I’m home, and Mr. Allan has yet to change his mind. I avoid him at all cost, for fear an altercation will brew and ruin my opportunity. I sit with the papers on the small table in my bedroom, staring at the same question about my family background. I contrive a dramatic retelling of how both my parents died in the terrible Richmond theater fire of 1809 and how John and Francis Allan adopted me as son and heir shortly after. A little fabrication is necessary to gain membership into such a prestigious group of silver-spooned men.

A thick letter from West Point arrives a month later, and I stare at it for almost an hour before steeling myself to view its contents. A lightning flash of joy strikes me out of my chair when I read the word: accepted.

I charge down the stairs screaming for Pa, and he answers for fear of something horribly wrong.

“I’m going to West Point!”

His worry melts into happy disbelief. “Are ye sure?”

He takes the letter from my hand, searching for the misunderstanding and, upon finding none, he releases an awkward, “Congratulations.”

Then it hits him fully and he slaps me on the back. “This calls for a celebration! Verry momentous.”

We grab our finest jackets and take his carriage into town for supper at Richmond’s finest hotel. He orders strong drink for us both, and once it’s taken hold, he stands and calls out to the whole room of diners, “A toast to my son, Edgar, who’ll be attending West Point in a few weeks.”

It must be pride in his face, for I’ve only seen it once before when I swam the six miles. All I ever want to do is to keep that look upon his face. Why does it only come with such impossible feats? One gentleman sends us over a bottle of champagne and we invite him to the table to drink with us. Maybe everything has turned for the better.

While readying to leave for West Point, I visit Fanny one more time. I wait until dusk falls on Fanny and Jane to walk home. Seeing them there again, whispering to me of mortality and buried dreams, brings demons home with me from the cemetery. Demons that feast upon guilt and thirst for self-pity. Am I making the right choices for myself? Shouldn’t I be writing? How am I going to fare with the most impressive, wealthiest men in the country? Men who have parents, men who are heirs. Self-doubt hangs on me like wet clothes. I walk into Fanny’s bedroom and pull open her drawers to release her fragrance of orris root. The ghost of her spins around my head and makes me dizzy and grievous with all that time steals from you. This smell will disappear with every opening, now that the contents are thrown away. All that we are and leave behind will fade.

I sit in the parlor with my back turned to liquor tray, but I sense the amber spirits waiting for someone to claim them. I’m on my fifth glass when Mr. Allan comes in from calling on an all-too-friendly, eligible woman he met at the funeral. There are always eligible women in attendance at a wealthy widower’s wife’s burial. I’ve never seen Mr. Allan smile so wide. His face unrecognizable with the strange new creases, obscuring all his deep frown lines. The house seems to dim with Fanny’s passing, as he begins to bloom.

He takes a glance at me with his scotch, surmising how much I’ve already consumed, and blows his cheeks out to calm his usual leap to rage. Instead, he straightens his tight coat and sits in the stiff-backed chair beside mine.

“Ye’re a soldier now. Ye’re at liberty to enjoy a glass or two.”

I nod, surprised at the jovial inflection on the usual grating tone. Mr. Allan was kind to me for the last two weeks, but every moment I wait, like a mouse being toyed with by the cat, for the bite that ends the game. He takes a large waft of air in the room, sensing, like a snake, the self-doubt in the air.

He sees Bryon’s book on my lap and the familiar smirk fights to reclaim his face. “Ye could still stay home. Save me a bonnie penny and save yerself the trouble. Accept a position in my business. A’m sure it pays double whit ye could make as an officer.”

“Without a college degree, West Point is my only ticket to becoming an officer and still pursue a literary career.” The scotch loosens my tongue. “I don’t have the luxury of funding and support that great writers possess. I must carve my own way.”

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.”