Not Quite Dead

by John MacLachlan Gray

  There is no limit to the hatred within families, I thought, as I nodded at regular intervals, echoed random phrases, and retreated into a reverie of boredom. Idly, my gaze cruised about the dining room—and fell upon a lone diner next to a corner window, her face obscured by a book, which may or may not have been a Bible.

  It is perhaps unnecessary to mention that she was the only female in the establishment.

  For me, the sight of this woman inspired that peculiar sensation of having seen someone or something before—while knowing it to be impossible. (Mr. Emerson wrote about the phenomenon but shone no light on it, leaving the field to quack clairvoyants from Europe and Hindu mystics from Brooklyn.)

  Returning my focus to the luncheon, noting that Mr. Poe had ordered a third glass of whiskey, I sped to the subject that was, for me at least, of most urgent importance.

  “Mr. Poe, sir, I hope I am not going out of bounds in recommending a closed casket. If truth be told, your second cousin is not a pretty sight. Mr. Ripp can correct the flaws to some degree of course, and at a price, but…” I trailed off, wincing gently as though leery of the result.

  “Most definitely. The casket must be closed,” replied the cousin, instantly. “I had not for one moment supposed it to be anything else.”

  I feigned a slight cough to mask my expression of profound relief. “That is fine, then. Excellent. It seems to me that all is in order.”

  “Just as it should be,” my companion said, nodding. “The burial will take place tomorrow, in lot twenty-seven. Uncle Henry Herring has kindly purchased the mahogany coffin. The family will take care of the tombstone and engraving. Reverend Clemm will preside—he is a relation of my dear little cousin Virginia, Edgar’s late wife.”

  So many cousins and uncles, I thought.

  And did I detect a hesitation, before he pronounced the name of his late cousin? Had cousin Neilson displayed an emotion?

  “There is one other thing,” said Neilson Poe. “And on this subject I need to trust in your discretion.”

  “I am a physician, sir,” I replied, somewhat miffed.

  “No offense intended, Doctor. My second cousin left a will, don’t you see? You might wonder that he went to the trouble, since his estate consists mostly of debts. But he did leave his works, for what they might be worth, to my aunt Maria Clemm, who was like a mother to him.”

  Resentfully, I wondered from whose arms Eddie had stolen Aunt Clemm.

  “But he made one specific, and peculiar, request.” Neilson Poe paused as though unsure that he would be able to mouth the words. “Edgar asks that his jugular be cut before burial.”

  “Ah yes,” I replied, smoothly. “I am not the least bit surprised.”

  “Dr. Chivers, sir, I am at a loss as to why not.”

  “Patients want to make sure they’re dead, don’t you see, sir. Some request that pepper be pushed up their nose, some want their feet tickled, even cut with razors. Then there is the tobacco smoke enema—dreadful thing—the corpse is played like a bagpipe …”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” The cousin seemed genuinely discomfited, and I must admit that I found this highly satisfactory.

  “Have you read Montaigne, sir?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time.”

  “There seems to be a creeping suspicion among the general public that the soul is buried with the body. That death might be, simply put, the end. Do you see? Without heaven, the grave becomes a secular hell.”

  “I understand,” nodded Eddie’s second cousin, who did not understand in the least.

  “Metaphorically speaking, there is more than one way to be buried alive.”

  “I beg you, Doctor, that is quite enough. How did we get on to this blasphemous subject?”

  “Some might regard throat-slitting as desecration of a corpse. However, since it is in Eddie’s will, I shall see that Mr. Ripp performs the service you request.”

  In truth, I would do no such thing. After all, it wasn’t Eddie we were burying, and his replacement was demonstrably deceased.

  “So that is settled, then,” he said, with an air of relief and satisfaction. “Very good. Of course, this will entail a substantial increase in your fee.”

  “That is kind of you, sir. A closed casket it is, then.”

  “Without a doubt,” said Neilson Poe, evidently pleased at the thought that he would not have to see his second cousin’s face, ever again.

  MY LUNCHEON WITH Neilson Poe had gone well enough that I might postpone my alternate plan, which was to step off the Thames Street dock and drown on a full stomach. Instead, for no particular reason I wandered the area from Shakespeare Street to Fell Street, amid thick traffic and a pungent mist reeking of manure—nothing like it to clear the sinus.

  The docks had enjoyed a seamy reputation from the moment they were built, and were accepted as such by the better neighborhoods. Authorities routinely ignored dance halls, saloons, inns, and broad-minded hotels. As the city prospered around it, the harbor became a favorite-slumming ground for Baltimore’s young upper crust, who liked to wander down to Sailortown and gape at the seamen and their trollops as they danced, gambled, and mated in public view.

  After a half-hour ramble I found myself at the Light Street dock near Gunner’s Hall, the site of my old friend’s supposed collapse. For a moment I felt as though I had been drawn there by a magnetic pull.

  At the site of a violent or momentous incident, many claim to have experienced a feeling of invisible intensity, like the swirl of air that follows a passing carriage in the street. This is, I believe, the basis for the sighting of ghosts, and what occurred in this case.

  Looking at the sodden ribbons wrapped around the lampposts, I remembered that Eddie was found on Election Day. I turned to the buildings on the north side of Lombard Street: not far away was Gunner’s Hall, damply festooned—it had been a polling place for the Fourth Ward. Next door to it sat Ryan’s Saloon, a thoroughly disreputable inn that leaned against Gunner’s Hall like a sot supported by a soldier.

  I made my way across the street through enormous piles of steaming manure, narrowly avoiding having my foot crushed under an iron cartwheel, whipped by the braided, manure-encrusted tails of the hosses.

  On the walkway outside Gunner’s Hall lay a sodden mass of posters representing various campaigns for mayor and council— including the victorious gentleman named Riley.

  Suddenly it occurred to me that Eddie might have manufactured the entire performance out of whole cloth. Had he found a drug that would raise his temperature and produce sweating? Had I been utterly fooled from beginning to end?

  I freely admit that I had not ventured near a polling station in a decade. I was not a member of the American Party, nor did I wish to fall victim to its supporters; therefore, I declined to push my way through a gauntlet of Plug-Uglies, to be stabbed with an awl by a member of the Red Necks, or thrust into a bucket of blood. Uncivic of me, I admit.

  As I gazed at the ragged bunting, the posters, the empty whiskey bottles, the ends of cigars, the broken clubs suitable for braining, the thought occurred to me: Eddie must surely have brought luggage. Immediately I headed in the direction of Ryan’s Saloon.

  Having to maintain his theatrics for an entire night—insufficiently clad in a cold, rainy season—could have given any man a dangerous chill, let alone a dissipated poet. Therefore he must have rented a place to get warm, and it must have been close by.

  By early afternoon, Ryan’s Saloon was filled to capacity—perhaps seventy men, most of them drunk since the previous day, having awoken in such distress that they simply carried on in their slept-in clothes. Around me, trickles of desultory conversation took place in a variety of dialects from various parts of Europe, snaking through the air like separate smells. The air itself was, as usual, translucent with smoke. The floor had been spread with insufficient sawdust to absorb the spittle, so that it appeared as though someone had scattered raw oysters about the room.


  Across the bar stood a man in his forties, with the build of a blacksmith, thick white side-whiskers with brown tobacco stains, and a perpetual frown.

  “Fat fill it be, skipper?” asked the barkeeper, in a Bavarian accent.

  “I am looking for Mr. Ryan,” I said.

  “He is dead. Herr Ryan is dead two years.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Not the cheneral opinion. He vatered his viskey.”

  “Might I ask who currently fills the shoes of that mendacious host?”

  “I haff that honor.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Chivers, from Washington College Hospital.”

  “Doctor, I am fery glad you haff come.”

  The barkeep reached over the bar, as though to shake my hand in welcome. As I began to reciprocate, he extended his right thumb, wrapped in a filthy rag. Having thus seized my attention, he unwound the rag to reveal a knife cut above the joint, festering so that the thumb had attained twice its normal size.

  “Is it you haff you a medicine for pain, Doctor? Ach, how it keeps me awakened!” He extended the thumb closer to my face. It was a yellowish-black, distended bulb of pus. The thumbnail, the color of blood pudding, had begun to separate from the digit as though deserting a lost battlefield.

  Having no alternative, I examined the inflamed digit. As always in such situations, I resented this. I do not understand the Hippocratic Oath. Why must doctors be burdened with a command that applies to nobody else on earth?

  First, do no harm. I beg your pardon? Nobody demands such a thing of a lawyer, or a teacher, or a businessman. And as for the command that a doctor must treat anyone who needs it, regardless of their ability to pay: What other citizen of America must eke out a living on his own, and function as a public servant at the same time?

  Yet I complied. I always did. It is not only doctors who are held hostage to the neediness of the human race.

  “I am glad that brought this to my attention, sir,” I said. “Two more days and the thumb would have to come off, without a doubt.”

  “Two days only?”

  “If that.”

  “What vill you haff to drink, Doctor? Alles ist on the house.”

  “A large of your best whiskey, if you please,” I replied without thinking, while digging into my bag for a vial of iodine tincture.

  Immediately I realized what I had done, and was about to cancel my order when it occurred to me how poorly my vow of temperance had served me when it came to resisting Eddie—that sobriety and sanity are not necessarily the same thing.

  Service was instant and enthusiastic. The whiskey was delicious. I would tender my formal resignation to the Temperance Brotherhood at some future date.

  I dabbed iodine on the thumb with a bit of cotton. The patient winced—as I would myself, for the stuff stings damnably. Yet he did not complain, for the pain of the swelling was worse. And in any case, the specter of amputation had gained his full attention.

  “I wonder if you might know anything about a gentleman who collapsed outside on election night,” I asked, as casually as possible.

  “Election night? Several chentlemen there vas over the bay. Stabbings and sings of that sort there vas—until the opponent of Riley foted against himself and conceded.”

  A typical election outcome, it seemed to me. But when Eddie called out Riley’s name, was it significant? It would be typical for Eddie to invent a name for death, and to use the name of a politician.

  “Did the name Poe come up at any time?”

  “Neffer heard it.”

  “Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Neffer heard of him eiser.”

  I finished dressing the thumb—in all probability it would require amputation, if not the entire hand—and prepared to take my leave, having wasted my afternoon.

  “Take this vial,” I said. “Put some on the wound twice a day after bathing it in hot water.”

  The innkeeper looked at the vial as though unpleasantly surprised. Washing had not been a factor in his calculations.

  “If it is not better in three days,” I continued, “come up to Washington College Hospital and ask for Dr. Chivers. Here is my card.”

  “Might it haff to come off?” He asked, as though appealing to my better nature.

  “Let’s hope for the best,” I replied, and raised my glass: “I drink to your thumb. To the health of thumbs everywhere!” I admit that the unaccustomed whiskey may have gone to my head.

  The Bavarian frowned at his bandaged thumb as though one might an ill-behaved child. A trickle of tobacco juice took refuge in a whisker while he indulged in gloomy thoughts of amputation and death.

  I left my card and turned to leave, when a sudden inspiration occurred—having to do with Poe’s reputation for handling his financial affairs.

  “I notice that you have rooms to let.”

  “Ve do, and chip they are at fifty cents.”

  “Very reasonable indeed. Even so, have you recently had the misfortune of a nonpaying guest?”

  The innkeeper’s face darkened. “Indeed we haff, Herr Doctor, and on election night too.”

  “Would his name by any chance be Poe?”

  “No that vas not the name.”

  “Henri Le Rennet? Richard Perry?”

  “Perry! It was the dodcher’s name.”

  “And he rented the room on election night?”

  “Ja. Three nights he owes and this morning he vas gone, luggage vas gone …” The innkeeper’s face brightened slightly: “Is it you are knowing Mr. Perry? Haff you seen him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am after him myself. He owes me some money for treatment received.”

  “Ah. I vas the luckier for that. He left a suit of clothes—no fest or shirt, but alles vas in good repair. I am getting two dollars for it.”

  HAVING ASSEMBLED A clear narrative of Eddie’s activities on the nights surrounding his arrival and departure, I decided to wander down to the local constabulary. There I made inquiries and, as expected, there had occurred no incident with Negroes of the sort Poe described. Now it became perfectly obvious why he had worn a suit of old clothes: being scrupulous in his dress, and being short of funds, he wished to save his own!

  After he left the hospital, leaving his oldest friend holding the bag, I imagined Eddie Poe returning to Ryan’s Saloon, changing into his own clothes, retrieving his trunk, and making his escape.

  Somewhere near the harbor walked a man in a two-dollar suit, courtesy of a cadaver.

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  Philadelphia

  The shelves of booksellers are overgrown with Sambo’s Woes

  done up in covers. A plague of all black Faces! We hate this

  niggerism and hope it may be done away with.

  —Graham’s Magazine

  Just above the waterfront, where Dock Street began one of its sweeping curves, next to a long series of buildings housing newspaper, magazine, printing, and engraving businesses, in a narrow building of red brick resided the offices of Topham & Lea.

  Up and down the street in front of the building, a procession of drays, Dearborn wagons, coaches, and trotting wagons rumbled down the cobbles, amid the oaths of drivers and the continual cracking of long whips.

  It being late afternoon, merchants’ sulkies and bankers’ carriages had begun to gather in front of the Exchange across the street. Messengers and clerks rushed in and out of the building to deposit and trade wild-cat money, state bank notes, and the increasingly common counterfeit bills.

  Located on the third floor behind a heavy oak-paneled door, the outer office of Topham & Lea featured an impressive display of paintings by well-known English artists. A glass-fronted bookcase contained handsome leather-and-gilt editions of the Great Works of Literature, together with more daring volumes by Byron and the Romantics, and an edition of Baudelaire, in French. Nearby, a large window afforded a view of the forest of masts and sails on the riverfront, spiking abov
e the blank, flat roofs of warehouses.

  A brocade visitors’ couch sat against a wall, its cushions worn shiny by the buttocks of anxious authors. Next to the couch, a narrow Chippendale table contained the latest releases by Topham & Lea: Thackeray, Scott, Tennyson, and Dickens. Also featured were the collected verses of Professor Longfellow and Dr. Holmes, a twenty-five-cent edition of Charles Brockden Brown and, incongruously, a set of Quaker abolitionist tracts.

  Opposite the couch, a door to the inner office featured a brass plaque containing the legend: Henry H. Topham, Esq.

  Beside the door to Topham’s office, behind a small desk piled high with manuscripts and letters, sat a precise, dark-complexioned gentleman with a set of close-trimmed whiskers and unfashionably short hair, wearing a high-buttoned frock coat and an immaculate white neck cloth. Removing a pair of silver pince-nez spectacles, he put aside the latest edition of Graham’s and rose to his feet, extending a ceremonial smile with the handshake, while his eye took in the visitor with an expression of pleasant evaluation.

  “Good afternoon, sah. How may I assist you?”

  “Finn Devlin is my name, sor, and I am here to see Mr. Topham. Would you be his secretary?”

  “My name is Mr. Bailey. I am the administrator here at Topham & Lea. And I am an editor as well.” As Mr. Bailey observed the handsome young Irishman—dark hair, high cheekbones, eyes the color of the sky—his face revealed neither amusement nor insult. “Do you have an appointment, sah?”

  “Mr. Topham and I met at Sportsman’s Hall, so we did. He expressed keen interest in meself and my work.”

  Mr. Bailey glanced at the calendar on his desk. “That would have been at the Morrison-Hola match, I expect.”

  “Aye, that it was. And a grand moment for Morrison too.”

  “Quite so. You were at a boxing match together, and there you discussed your manuscript?”