Chapter 32

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 about 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 comfortable 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.

“Virginia!” Muddy calls over her shoulder. “There’s even a piano for you!”

“That is wonderful, Ma.” But her tone seems full of doubt since she nearly runs out of breath mid-sentence.

I kneel on the floor and remove the basket’s lid. Catterina first hesitates and then sticks her small, black head out. She smells the air and hunches back inside the very prison she fought against for the whole ride.

“Fine then, stay inside.” I leave the lid off and let her come out of her own accord.

“Virginia can have her own room here. There are three bedrooms.” Muddy points to the room facing the south-east side. “She will have that one.”

“But it’s the smallest and the eaves come down so low that the bed posts had to be cut off to fit.”

“It has the most sun and windows. She needs the light and air.”

I agree and bring my things to the darkest room, leaving the largest one for Muddy since I spend so little time in my room anyway. Muddy comes in and sees the desk left under the only, tiny window, facing north. “They left the desk for you. I think someone knew this was just what we needed.”

The stiffness incurred from the uncomfortable train seat leaves my muscles. “I only want to make you and Virginia happy.”

She looks into my eyes and gives me a sincere hug. “And you have, Edgar.”

Why is it I still feel as though I’m failing them? I wish I could give them a house like Moldavia, and have servants catering to Muddy all day. I could send Virginia to the finest hot springs in the country to recuperate. Maybe Virginia even got sick from the days in the New York tenement. Maybe they would find that consumption is caused by poor diets and insufficient air. Had Virginia gone to Neilson’s when he pleaded would she still be healthy?

I can’t bear to answer that question, for it bites into the depths of my stomach and stings there. I carry everything inside from the pile the carriage left. The thick air around me feels wet and the skies foretell impending rain. Muddy sets up Virginia’s bed first and, as soon as it’s fluffed practically to the eave, Virginia falls asleep until morning, even though it was only four in the afternoon when she lay down. Catterina finds me in the night, and only purrs when I wrap my arms around her, staying in my grasp until dawn.

Virginia never seems to recover from the trip. She sleeps more and more of the day away. On good days she ventures out to the rocker on the porch, and she waves to me whenever I turn to check on her from the boulder I write the day away upon in the middle of a sea of Cosmos, Black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace. I always bring back a large bouquet for Muddy to refresh all the ironstone pitchers in each room. It’s such things that battle Virginia’s noticeable decline. Warm fires, comforting dinners and Catterina’s rich and soothing purr work as well.

Then the brightest thing enters our house on a sleepy Sunday. I’m off on my rock and I barely notice the middle-aged, prim woman make her way up onto the porch. I watch her with squinted eyes as she knocks on the door and Muddy readily welcomes her in. Curious as to our unexpected visitor, I blow on my ink to dry it, then snap my writing folder closed. I catch my foot on a protruding stump before the porch and send the inkwell flying. I inspect the now chipped and ink-covered glass, hoping the mysterious woman is worth all the trouble.

As soon as I see her rosy cheeks, I know that she is.

“And this is the accomplished writer I’ve heard so much about.” She switches her large carrying bag onto her left arm so that she can offer me her hand.

Virginia chirps happily. “She is our nearest neighbor.”

“And a nurse.” Muddy cocks her head toward me. “She’s heard that Virginia is ailing and wishes to help us.”

“Sent from the angels then.”

She swipes the compliment away with her gloved hand. “No, just from the church. I didn’t even know anyone moved in. I should have been by months ago to help you settle in. How un-neighborly of me.”

I say, “Whatever you can do to make Virginia comfortable I will pay well for.”

“I wouldn’t hear of such a thing. The Bible says, ‘Love thy neighbor’ and happily I do so.” She unties her lacey Coburg bonnet.

Muddy quits wringing her hands and offers to take Mrs. Shew’s bag for her.

“Oh, no. I will need this most of all.” She heaves the supple leather bag up onto the table we eat on and yanks off her tight-fitting gloves, finger by finger. “I come prepared.”

“Maria, lay Virginia down in her bed, and I’ll be up at once with an Oriental herbal concoction that worked wonders for a daughter-in-law of mine. She still is managing quite well with tuberculosis, even after six years.”

Muddy takes Virginia up the stairs and Virginia gives a worried look back, as Mrs. Shew removes a large bulb of garlic from her bag. The smell of the tea she brews is so powerful I excuse myself to go back to work outside. By the time I return, Mrs. Shew is gone, but the odor hangs in the air.

Virginia looks rosier than I’ve seen her in months. “Oh, Edgar. It was horrendous.” Nevertheless, she laughs and sits strong in her chair. “It was all I could do to keep from spitting all over poor Mrs. Shew, but I drank the whole cup and I feel wonderful.”

Muddy says, “She truly has been sent to us from heaven.”

“What a miracle she is.” I pick up Catterina and snuggle her into Virginia’s lap.

The terrible smell becomes a most welcome smell, since Virginia improves more with every cupful. I push money into Mrs. Shew’s hands and she only accepts it to buy more of the rare herbs. She returns every day with more potion and always manages to bring the tastiest pastries and delicacies from the finest markets to keep Virginia interested in food. She can only be coaxed to swallow sweets since losing her appetite for meats and vegetables. Mrs. Shew becomes the sun to all of us. We flock around her whenever she arrives to bask in her healing light. I run from my writing pasture, Muddy abandons her chores, Virginia leaves the piano (yes she is even singing again!), even Catterina emerges, leg-stretching from her napping spot. I try to study what it is about her that can make me feel so. Was it her soft touch? Her warm voice? Her calm and strong presence? A spirit unaffected and undaunted by the toils and disappointments of life?

Our house is filled with laughter again and Muddy and I stop fretting over Virginia. She awakes every morning, ague free, and coughs only as much as Muddy or I. We even stop counting. Virginia ventures back outside and I can hardly write when I’d rather watch Catterina run after Virginia like a loyal puppy, bouncing along with her among the low grasses and fluffy dandelions. Virginia takes each little weed and blows the whole puff away, as Catterina frantically hops about in hopes of catching one. Virginia cries out like a child as she twists vines above the black cat’s head and Catterina stands like a little circus bear, humorously pawing in the air.

“Dance, my little bear. Dance!” She squeals with delight.

The gaunt angles are gone, softened by her usual youthful plumpness. Her robust laughter returns along with the mischievous smile. I haven’t realized how much she declined before Mrs. Shew’s intervention. To see her play again, with no tint of sickness, cools a burning deep inside. I can take a deep breath.