Unknown

God takes pity on me, on my catastrophe of terrible events, and he throws a bone my way. When I return to our simple but peaceful boarding house, Virginia stands smiling with a letter.

“From a certain Mr. Kennedy!” She hands me the letter with a squeal and perches over my shoulder as I rip it open.

“It was all we could do to keep from opening while you were gone.” Muddy nervously paces in front of us as I read aloud:

“Dear Mr. Edgar Poe,

Congratulations, your short story, MS. Found in a Bottle, has won first prize and, as the contest stipulated, will be printed in this week’s Baltimore Saturday Visiter. I dare say that your other stories you entered were all in the running for first prize as well (a situation that has never happened before), but all of the judges unanimously agreed MS. Found in a Bottle surpassed them all. Please come down to our office so I can shake the hand that held such a powerful and creative pen and to claim your $50 prize, of course.

Yours Admirably,
John P. Kennedy.”

Muddy and Virginia both shriek for me. Muddy cries, “Fifty dollars! How wonderful!” She pulls off my frock coat immediately. “You must go at once. Let me make this coat presentable again. It has degraded some with you.r travels.”

She flaps a busy hand at me. “Go fetch a boiled shirt and necktie from the cupboard, and I will brush this coat up, good as new.”

“If anyone can revive this coat once again, it’s you,” I say, heading to the stairs.

I check my reflection in the Visiter’s expensive window. Muddy has worked miracles, but upon close inspection, anyone can see I’m held together by a thread. It will have to do. I give one more pull to secure my necktie and walk into the smoky office. A younger man sits at a small desk and he glances up expectantly.

A large, jolly man opens the door in the back of the office, puffing on a thick cigar. “Poe you say?” He reaches a warm hand out to mine. “Wonderful to finally meet you. Please, come into my office.”

His office is small, but the desk is regal, and there are newly upholstered seats in red velvet. The spicy smell of tobacco hangs heavily in the air, telling me he must always have a cigar dangling under his mustached lip. He sits nosily and immediately opens a cigar box for me. I shake my head respectfully and he snaps the worn lid back.

“So this is the man who dominated our contest this year.” A deep dimple appears like a period at the end of his wide smile.

“You may be the only one who thinks so.” I laugh, but he can see the truth in my downturned eyes.

I tell him the effort to publish my own pamphlet and how it never sells. I rattle off to him the long list of papers and magazines that rejected the very entry that won his contest.

“Well, how lucky for us that we get to be the first to publish it.” His hearty laugh lifts my spirits. He hands me the crisp fifty-dollar bill from his desk drawer. I take it carefully in my hand.

“Thank you,” is all I can manage. There is no way for him to know how much I need it.

“I do have some political friends in Baltimore, I will do my best to obtain you a suitable position.”

I can’t believe the luck. Maybe fate is finally looking my way. I grab for his hand. “That would be much appreciated, sir.”

As I walk out the office, he calls, “Be sure to keep writing, Poe. I’ll be in touch.”

Muddy and Virginia can’t believe the kindness of Mr. Kennedy and when another letter comes requesting for me to meet with him again so soon. They’re sure it’s good news.

This time I stride into the office and state, “Mr. Edgar Poe here at the request of Mr. Kennedy.”

He pulls a cigar out and chuckles. “You certainly are eager to get your hands dirty, aren’t you?”

“I have some business to take care of presently, but would you be so kind as to allow me to take you out to dinner at Baltimore’s finest hotel to discuss this further?”

The word “yes” starts to emerge when it gets lodged under the frayed necktie at my throat. There is no way I can stand next to such a prosperous man, even his work attire is finer than my best frock.

He straightens his neck, I’m sure no one has ever turned down a dinner invitation from him. I lift my frock a bit.

The cigar almost falls from his stunned lips, as soon as he can reclaim it, he says, “Well then, I insist you come to my house to dine in private. You can show up in your nightshirt if you wish.”

He shakes my hand again and says, “I have some business to finish here, but I expect you at five o’clock sharp, at seven Biddle Street.”

I know I can’t say no. Since it’s already four, I don’t have time to walk to the poor side of town to tell Muddy and Virginia I’m not coming home for supper—or bread and tea at least. They would be on pins and needles, waiting to celebrate the news. I busy myself by walking around the streets, and when the town clock strikes a quarter to five, I know I must make my way over. His servant immediately brings me into his parlor, which is filled with mahogany, Chippendale furniture. I find a seat in the corner chair and I twiddle my thumbs, as Mr. Kennedy is tardy.

He wafts in on a cloud of tobacco smoke and apologies and lets the servant know he is having a guest for supper. We talk of politics before supper is ready and I struggle all the while, trying to turn to conversation back to my new possible position. The table is set to the edge with every sort of delicacy. Immediately, I ask, “Should we wait for the others?”

He chuckles. “No, it is just us tonight. Mrs. Kennedy is visiting relatives.”

Guilt sets in that I’m enjoying such an opulent table while Muddy and Virginia are most likely dipping their stale bread into broth to soften it. I sit, pick up the supple, fine linen napkin, and place it over my lap.

“I won’t delay the news any longer, but I fear it isn’t what you expect.”

Why would he toy with me so and have me to his table if it wasn’t good news?

“Not such a long face there, my boy!” He reaches out to deliver a heavy slap to my shoulder. “I couldn’t get you a schoolteacher position, but I do know a respectful gentleman in Richmond—”

“—who read your story in my paper and demanded at once the name of such a gifted writer.”

“Well, I shan’t delay the news any longer.” He laughs with his brown-green eyes. “But my dear friend, Mr. White, editor of the Richmond Messenger, has begged for your editorial assistance at his paper.”

His face lights up when he sees how happy this makes me. I can only dream of such an employment.

“When does he want me?” Thoughts of Muddy and Virginia rush through my head.

“Your story spoke to him of your abilities, and I have assured him of your integrity.”

I can’t control the spread of my smile. “You do not know what this means to me, sir. I am forever in your debt.”

“Balderdash! You owe me nothing. What else would a friend do for another friend?”

Fate definitely shines upon me, after years of neglect. After stuffing myself and filling any space left with a smooth bourbon nightcap, Mr. Kennedy walks me to his door and lays a comforting arm around my shoulders. “While you are winding up your affairs here, I expect you to return to share my table, and I have a whole drawer full of fine clothes my thick stomach no longer squeezes into that I would like to have tailored to your measurements to begin your new life.”

The light in his eye is pure and holds no strings. “I’m convinced you have been sent from some angel.”

Another puff on his cigar and he adds, “And I must insist of financing your journey to Richmond. It is the least I can do to aid such a literary genius.”

“I fear I must leave your stoop immediately for concern that this is all just the trick of some desperate dream, and it will disappear into the ethers in a moment.”

He removes the cigar with a deep chuckle and holds his hands out like feeling for rain. “Nope. We’re still here.”

He motions his servant to bring me a basket filled with remnants from our supper. He stuffs it in my hands. “Goodnight, Edgar. Come back tomorrow for the fittings.”

When I return to our tiny space in the much darker district a ways from Biddle Street, Muddy waits expectantly by the fire embers, and Virginia sleeps uncomfortably in the softest chair.

“She tried to stay up for the news.” Muddy rises to take my coat to the cupboard and I remember the package. Muddy peers in with awe. “What a kind man to send you home with something.” She sits to eat the perishables immediately. “So out with it all,” she says between large bites of ham.

“I showed up at a bad time, and he requested that we meet at his house to discuss his news.”

I put a hand up to calm her. “First, he gave me bad news.” Her eyes droop back to where I’ve seen them since her mother passed. “He could not use his influence for school teaching employment. But—” Her eyes widen in hope. “—he did get me employment at a respectable friend’s newspaper.”

She claps her hands so loudly, Virginia stirs. We wait for her to slump back into sleep and I speak in a whisper. “Not in Baltimore, but in Richmond.”

Her shoulders sink then lift into her normal, graceful position. “This is still good news. You will leave us to start out in Richmond, and once you are settled in steady employment, we will follow. This is great news.”

I can finally smile, knowing she understands. “And I will send everything I can home with every pay check.”

“I have no doubt you will.” She reaches over and pats my knee. “You are such a good boy.”

“I just don’t know how Virginia will take it.” The angel parts her lips in thick dreaming.

“Oh, she would want what’s best for you, I’m sure.” She tucks the food away and says, “Lift Virginia up to bed now, Eddie. Neilson is due in for an early visit tomorrow.”

I groan at the mention of Neilson, but Muddy thinks it’s the weight of Virginia.

“She is getting so much bigger, isn’t she?” She smiles and pats the basket happily. “What a breakfast she will awake to in the morning!”

Neilson unfortunately is there early. He brings cheesecakes, mince-pies, and exotic fruits with him, ruining the basket surprise I carried home. I pull away from the opulent table to say, “May I be excused to step out for some air?”

Muddy gives me permission, and I seek out the company of the chickens. Scratching rhythmically around me, they find juicy bugs in the dirt. Their clucks and whines soothe my nerves after the dread of the last few weeks. The chickens scatter as Virginia emerges and sits beside me.

I laugh. “I would think he would have asked to open the outhouse door for you.”

She lies down to stare up at the quick moving clouds. “Now out with it. What came of your talk with Mr. Kennedy? You and Muddy have been tight-lipped about it and I’ve held my tongue with Neilson around, but out with it.”

“I have been offered a wonderful opportunity at a newspaper.” I lie down now, hoping she will relax enough to join me. “It will only be a temporary absence.”

“If I decide to leave, I will never leave you for long.” I pull her down to lie on my arm. “I promised Henry I will always care for you and Muddy, so if I strike out on my lonesome to provide for you, you must understand.”

“I will be strong then.” She tries to look into my eyes but is so small I have to stare down at her. “I trust that you will never leave me.”

I give her a playful squeeze. “Just be sure you don’t run off with sniveling Neilson while I’m gone.”

Mr. Kennedy not only outfits me, he buys me new shoes, gloves, and accessories fit for the finest gentleman. By the time I ready to go, I feel like a new man. Virginia gasps once she sees me in my new skin. “You are so handsome!”

Muddy rushes up to feel the fine material. “An angel. A guardian angel Mr. Kennedy is. Oh, you look so rich.”

They both beam, dreaming of that day. With so much hope, it’s easy to say goodbye. The claret-colored carriage Mr. Kennedy arranges pulls up, and the driver is relieved I have so little to bring with me. I wave as it rolls away and call out, “I’ll write as soon as I’m settled!”

Why is it when you least want to bump into someone, you will in no doubt bump into them, but when you actually want to show yourself off, they aren’t anywhere to be seen? I wish for Elmira to see the fine carriage I step out of, or to see how handsome I look. But her pretty green eyes are nowhere to be seen.

I obtain a modest room at a boarding house and write of my safe arrival to home at once. Strange, I occupy the very city of my youth and say I’m writing ‘home,’ but at least Richmond doesn’t feel like a stranger. After sending the letter off, I go in to meet Mr. White. I expect him to look just as Mr. Kennedy, but he can’t be more different. White is fat where Kennedy is lean, stocky where he is slight. His office is free from smoke and glistens in cleanliness and order.

Even though he is so different, his mannerism is as welcoming. He reaches out a slender hand. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about you. So nice to finally make your acquaintance.” I sit on the simple wooden chair across from a small painting of a young man.

He looks up and gives a quick nod, as he shuffles through some papers. I wonder why he takes the effort of keeping him on his desk for everyone to see, yet has nothing to say about him when prompted.

He pulls up a paper, holding his glasses at the end of his nose, and squints as he reads the first few paragraphs of MS. Found in a Bottle. No one ever read my poem aloud to me and this makes me cross and re-cross my legs until he finishes.

“Such a masterful way of building such dread. I practically dug my nails into my chair as I was reading. I felt there was no way to avoid the catastrophe and yet I couldn’t not stop reading.”

“This is what I want you to find to publish in my newspaper. It will be your job to shift through all the drudgery and pull out such captivating stories and poems to increase and educate my readership.” He studies me. “Mr. Kennedy and your talents have ensured me you are such a man and I leave it all up to you.”

I had no idea he was going to leave me in charge of so much responsibility, but I welcome the weight of it upon my shoulders. “I will not disappoint you, sir.”

After a tour around the office, I find a nice long desk in the back and go to work shifting through the applicants, those miserable poets and writers such as I, to decide their fate. Faith in my writing is only magnified once I see the competition. I go home only after Mr. White leaves. He gives me a pleased nod, seeing me diligent and going without supper. Why would I rush back to such an empty room?

I nail Henry to the cross, and as I drive the iron pegs into his palms, I hear him cry from far off. He begs for me to let him down, but he belongs there. Walking away, the thick waves of the dead sea surround me, and attempt to reach me, and drift into the road where a starved dog eats a half-burnt corpse. I pass a dilapidated house where Muddy weeps as she stirs a kettle hanging over an open fire. A large raven caws atop her collapsing house.

I’m startled awake in a clammy bath of sweat. Someone argues in the boarding room next to mine, the walls are so thin I can hear each passionate word. The sheets feel dirty even though the boarding house matron professed she’d cleaned them herself, but I miss Muddy’s impeccable laundry, her sheets smelling of spring rain and sunshine. These sheets smell of basements and dust. Even though I’m so tired from my journey, I can’t shake the nightmare until my neighbors arguing ends.

Weeks pass by and I live and breathe the paper. Mr. White takes me out to dinner once a week to celebrate the weekly rise in readership since he hired me on. The more confidence I get, the more I stick my hand into all facets of editing and layout. Mr. White allows me to take full rein and, many times, I stay up all hours of the night. Something about my room lies heavy on me and even though the bags under my eyes sag, I never felt so able and successful.

The only light of my week is the letter Virginia sends to me and I miss their happy faces and reassuring company. Muddy sends her letter, usually pained with her failing efforts to make ends meet. I try to eat so little to send as much as I can, buying the cheapest of whiskeys to get me through the long hours alone at work. It keeps me going through the witching hour and also makes sure I fall into a rock-like slumber so not even the worst argument or hungry baby should wake me.

Mr. White calls me into his office with an ever-widening smile. “Another unprecedented week, Edgar my boy. You have done wonders for The Messenger. It is the talk of the town and your editorials and analysis is on every tongue on the streets of Richmond.”

“Again, it is only through your opportunity that I do so.” I decide to ask the question I’ve wondered about the past few weeks. “How is it that you got into editing?”

“Well, my father owned a bustling plantation. We lived very well, but on the backs of forced labor. I didn’t want any part of plantation running. Even though I’m in the minority in these parts, I believe whole-heartedly in paying for fair labor.” He studies my face to judge its reception. Since I couldn’t care less about slavery, wrong or right, he presses on honestly. “Bullies, all of the them. I’ve seen things that would make any Christian’s eyes burn. No, I found safety and peace in words.”

He smiles finally. “Being the third son, I luckily had the option to another profession. It’s important to be who you are. You must be true to yourself.” He taps his finger to accentuate each word, then turns the painting of his son toward him and looks far off into someplace I can’t see. “I lost my only son three years ago.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” I know that pain so well and it still burns in his eyes.

He glances up, almost surprised to see me there out of the nightmare he remembers. “He would have approved of you. There is so much of him I see in you.”

“I was grooming him for the job you thrive in and feel he would have performed as well.”

He finally looks into my eyes. “I couldn’t be more proud. You have filled some big shoes and it warms my heart.”

The compliment flips my stomach and the moisture in my eyes betrays my masculinity. I clear my throat to fight the weakness. “I better get back to my desk for today’s deadline.”

I rise as he chuckles. “I don’t even need to drive the whip. You are naturally disposed to self-flagellation.”

I bow slightly and hurry back to my work, where a freshly delivered letter lies. I recognize Muddy’s handwriting at once and wonder why she would send two letters in the same week. My eyes dart around the page as my heart skips its beating. Widening on such words as, “struggling without friends,” “desperate for aid,” “Neilson has kindly offered to take us in and even to fund Virginia’s education,” “what shall we do, dear Eddie?”

Why would Neilson have interfered so? Why would he be trying so hard to pull them away from me? All that I have!

The review I’m supposed to be writing burns annoyingly in front of me. I have every urge to hop on a carriage back to speak to Muddy myself, but I check the large clock in the hall. I only have an hour to print. I force the letter to the corner of my desk and try desperately to keep my mind on the tasks at hand. I’m angry and panicked and the feelings come out uncontrollably in the unfortunate review. With five minutes to spare, I finish and instead of going back to my desk, I take her letter and purchase a full bottle to calm me as I craft a pleading letter to her. The brandy loosens my tongue and assuages the fear.

My dearest Muddy,

I beg you not to hurt me so. You and sweet Virginia are all I have in this cold world. How can you think to leave me while I’m struggling so to support you both? It’s so very soon that we shall all be together and comfortable. If you should decide upon Neilson, you would be driving the very nails into my coffin. How can you deal such a blow to one you have loved like a son?

Painfully awaiting your assurance,
Eddie

Tears run down my brandy-numbed face, blurring the edges of pitiful words. I fade into toxic sleep, with only the letter to remind me of what occurred the night before. I’m late into work for the first time, and Mr. White catches me as I sneak into the far reaches of my office. No amount of water and brushing can rid the obvious look of too much liberation of liquors or some powerful sickness. He comes at once to inquire as to which.

“I’ve had a nasty bout of headache, chills, and stomach upset.” That is still the truth. My head throbs at every word I mutter, my stomach turns at every step.

Mr. White seems relieved it wasn’t the bottled plague and he quickly demands, “Back to your bed then. I want you back in health tomorrow. We shall make do without out while you mend.”

I think to argue for a moment, but my stomach squeezes in rebellion and I hold my mouth as I run for the door. Losing the contents of my stomach of sulfurous brandy on the side of the road as beribboned and ruffled young ladies shielded their eyes to my deplorable sight is not enough embarrassment to keep me from drinking another bottle that night. I can’t sleep or eat wondering how Muddy will receive my pleading and if they will abandon me too.

Even though I still look worse for wear, I stumble into the office, squinting like a vampire at every dim light. I try to distract the buzzing in my head with my usual morning ritual, but the old brandy bottle in the bin catches my eye. I lift it up to the light to see if there might be any liquid forgotten to ease the morning throb. Mr. White marches in and I quickly try to hide the bottle under the desk.

I stare down at the review I wrote two days ago. He stabs it with a fevered finger.

“Only because I find fault in this author’s style and execution?” I slowly try to slip the bottle into the bin before he should find it in my hands.

“There is no need to disagree with so much venom. Remember well, the ache of such rejection on your own pieces. Remember the fragility of your gift. How can a writer be so forgetful of a fellow writer’s plight and pain?”

“I will be more careful with my critiques.” Little does he know the letter I received right before writing this article.

“Be wary—you do not stand on such a stable pedestal. None of us do.” He lifts the bottle from the rubbish bin.

He shakes his head at me. “I have no doubt this was the cause of yesterday’s illness. Misguided by bottled rage. Take leave of this desk, and don’t return until you cut out the juice. No matter how talented you are, I will not sit back and watch a man drown.” The clunk of the bottle hitting the bin, rattles me to the core.

I gather my few things and leave the office. Mr. White keeps his face to his papers as I walk out. How can things have so soured so quickly? I walk by a dram shop, gazing at the rows of liquored temptation and promises of relief, but know what I have to do. Where I have to go.