Eddie

by Scott Gustafson

  For the five or six blocks that was the length of the journey to the theater’s alley, nothing of note happened. Soon Eddie and McCobber were watching from behind an old wooden barrel as Mephisto gave the stage door a series of three short raps. A moment later the door opened and the captain disappeared within.

  The raven landed on the barrel’s rim as Eddie knelt behind it. “That’s weird,” the bird said. “I wonder what our friend the captain was doing in Murphy’s shed.”

  “So that’s where he went,” said Eddie.

  “Maybe he had to take a leak,” McCobber suggested.

  “We’d better keep an eye on this guy,” Eddie said. “He’s up to something.”

  He then walked to the stage door and tried to open it. “Locked,” he whispered. “I sure would like to see what goes on backstage with old Mephisto.” He began to turn away, and then remembered something. “You know,” he said, “I used to know somebody who worked here. . . .” He gingerly rapped three times himself.

  “I’m comin’,” a voice called from inside. The door opened, and an older black man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat appeared. “May I help you?”

  Eddie was relieved at the sight of him. “Hello, Mr. Othello. Remember me?”

  The man squinted, and tilted his head first to the left and then to the right. Then a smile slowly brightened his eyes. “Young Master Poe? Is that you?” he grinned. “Is that Eddie Poe?” Eddie smiled and nodded.

  “Why, I’d hardly recognize you,” he said, and laughed. “You’re so grown. Look at you!” He shook his head. “But you still got your mother’s eyes.” The man patted the boy on the shoulder. “Now, what brings you down here on such a fine evening? You got a hankerin’ to see a show?”

  Eddie’s smile broadened, and he was about to answer when—

  “By golly!” said the old man with a sudden start. “You know, there’s someone here who’d like to see you. Just hold on now, hold on!” He turned, peering into the dark passageway behind him. “Cap’n,” he called. “Excuse me, Cap’n Mephisto?”

  Eddie felt a wave of panic when he heard the name. “Ah, n-no. That’s all right,” he stammered. “You don’t have to . . .”

  As the man in front of him turned, Eddie got a glimpse into the hallway. There, not thirty feet away, stood his suspect conversing with a clown. For one flashing instant Eddie considered trying to duck and hide, but it was too late. The magician had looked their way, excused himself from his conversation, and begun retracing his steps back to the stage door.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n,” said Mr. Othello, beaming, “but I was pretty sure you’d like to say hello to this young gentleman. Cap’n Mephisto, meet Master Edgar Poe.”

  Mephisto looked at the older man in disbelief for a moment, and then steadied his gaze directly on Eddie. “Not Eliza’s boy?” His intense stare flickered into a smile. “My Lord, so it is . . . so it is!” He shook the boy’s hand warmly.

  “Captain Mephisto here organized a benefit performance by the other players to raise money for your poor mother, just before the end there.” Othello smiled sadly.

  “Too little, too late, I am afraid,” said the magician. “We all admired your mother so. She was such a lovely woman and a talented actress.”

  Eddie tried to speak but couldn’t find the words.

  “And how is that little sister of yours?” Mephisto continued. “She was so very little when . . . when . . .”

  “Oh, Rosalie.” Eddie finally found his voice again. “She’s fine, sir. I see her quite regularly. She lives with the McKenzies now, and they’re friends with my foster parents, John and Fannie Allan.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled. “I do remember now. My, they certainly have done well by you. Why, you’re growing like a weed!”

  “Hey, Mephisto!” called a loud, harsh voice from within the theater. “There you are. I want a word with you.” A large, gruff man with a cigar in his mouth shoved his way into their midst.

  “Listen, Mephisto,” he continued, seemingly unaware of the others. “I wanted to talk to you about your act. It could use a little spicin’ up. You know, more pizzazz. Like I told ya the other day, if you want to stay on the bill in this theater, you gotta keep up with the times.”

  “Why, uh, yes, Mr. Wood,” said the captain, somewhat flustered. “I’ll definitely take that into consideration.”

  “So what’s all this?” The man’s attention had shifted to Eddie. “If this kid’s lookin’ for a job, we don’t have any. If he wants to see the show, it’s two bits out front, just like all the rest of the yokels!”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Othello politely, “but this is young Edgar Poe.” He smiled. “He’s the son of the actors Elizabeth and David Poe.”

  “Oooh, yeah. I remember.” He eyed Eddie as he took the wet chewed cigar from between his teeth and pointed at him with grubby wet fingers. “Your old man never could hold his liquor, could he?” He grinned a greasy, snide grin.

  Eddie felt himself go crimson with rage. “Sir!” He was about to unleash an unbridled assault of verbal fury when the captain spoke.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a stern voice, “but I believe you had better watch your tongue. The Poes were friends of mine.”

  “Psssh!” The theater manager turned on him with contempt. “That figures! Maybe I’ve been too nice to you for too long, old-timer,” he sneered. “Maybe I ought to drop your billing and your pay as of tonight . . . as of right now!”

  “Now, see here, Wood!” Mephisto started.

  “Ah, keep it to yourself, Cappy!” Wood waved him off. “I’m too busy to mess with you now. We’ll handle this after the show!” He turned away from Mephisto and stuck his finger on the boy’s chest. “And you.” He spat, then squinted. “Beat it!”

  Eddie felt the big flat hand push him hard. The unexpected shove caught him off guard, and he lost his balance. He toppled backward. There was a bone-jarring smack as he hit the broken pavement of the alley. His palms burned from an attempt to break his fall. From the ground he saw Mr. Othello’s apologetic face just before the stage door slammed shut.

  Eddie was on his feet immediately, dusting himself off and cursing under his breath.

  “Why that big oaf!” McCobber raged. “I say we go back in there and teach that cretin a lesson!”

  “Yeah?” Eddie muttered. “You and what army?” He stormed over to the barrel where they had left the raven, and he kicked the slats. The bird jumped, then fluttered back onto the rim.

  “Easy, boy. What happened?”

  Eddie flopped back against the brick wall and slid down until he was seated on the ground. “Why is the world ruled by subhuman clods and vulgarians?” he said, fuming.

  “I guess they wouldn’t let you go backstage, eh?” the raven asked.

  “It was a sneak attack!” McCobber growled. “Just give me a few minutes with that moron, and I’ll wipe that smirk off his face!”

  “So, what now?” The raven ignored the ranting little demon.

  Eddie explained that not only had the theater manager made an affront to his parents, but he had also threatened to fire the magician. And even if Mephisto were somehow involved in this cat and rooster incident, there was no way Eddie was going to expose him now. The man had gone out of his way to try to help his family before his mother died.

  “I see,” the raven said. Then, after a few moments of thoughtful silence, he added, “So, do you have two bits?”

  Eddie looked up, confused—and McCobber looked up, annoyed. “What?” McCobber snapped.

  “If Eddie’s got two bits,” the raven replied, “he should take in the show.” Directing his comments to the boy, he said, “What have you got to lose? And it might take your mind off . . . well, you know . . . your troubles.”

  “TROUBLES?!” McCobber cried. “Don’t be cute! And don’t try to sugarcoat this! How’s this kid supposed to forget that tomorrow he is doomed to be beaten within an inch of his life? TROUBLES!”


  “All right, McCobber, knock it off!” Eddie said. He leaned his elbows onto his knees and ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah,” he sighed, “maybe you’re right, Raven. Since the prime suspect is beyond reproach, I guess I might as well face the inevitable and get used to the idea that I am the scapegoat. In which case, dear Raven, your suggestion is a grand one. Why not spend my last night enjoying at least a bit of pleasure!” He stood up and dug deep into his pocket. A moment later he flipped a quarter into the air.

  “McCobber, old friend,” he said, smiling, “please allow me to treat you to this, our farewell fling. And you, our ebony companion.” Eddie bowed slightly to the raven. “I am sorry that you cannot join us for this particular amusement, but we would be honored by the pleasure of your company for the journey home. Will you be here after the final curtain falls?”

  “Then and evermore.” He, too, bowed slightly and smiled.

  “Ha ha ha . . . very funny!” snarled McCobber. “We’ll see who’s making with the gallows humor tomorrow morning!”

  “Ah, but tomorrow, my dear McCobber,” Eddie comforted. “Tomorrow is an eternity away, and tonight . . . Well, tonight stretches before us like a magic carpet!”

  “Bah!” the imp grumbled. “You’ll be lucky if that butcher Allan doesn’t roll you into a carpet and dump you in an alley after he’s taken his cat-o’-nine-tails to you.”

  “Tsk, tsk, McCobber.” Eddie shook his head. “I did so hope you would get more into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps you just need a little time to yourself.” And before the imp knew what hit him, Eddie had plucked McCobber from his shoulder and thrust him into the pocket of his frock coat. “You will just have to sit in there until you decide to be civil.” Then, nodding slightly to the raven, Eddie lifted his chin, puffed out his chest, and with the air of an experienced man about town, strode down the alley toward the front of the theater.

  “Enjoy the show,” the raven called.

  “We shall,” Eddie called over his shoulder as he patted his pocket. “We shall!”

  At the playhouse entrance a poster proclaimed the wonders of the show within. The theater offered a wide range of entertainments throughout the season, from the plays of Shakespeare to dramatic readings and lectures. This week featured a variety show in which an assortment of different acts would perform their particular specialties during the course of an evening. There was to be a pig act, dancers, jugglers, and then the main act: Captain Mephisto. It was his image featured on the poster.

  “So what do you think, McCobber,” Eddie whispered to the imp. “Could that demon we saw in the window last night be the true magic behind the magician?”

  “Bah!” McCobber sneered, peeking out from under the pocket flap. “I don’t know about making birds magically appear, but I know how he makes them disappear.” McCobber made a loud, chomping sound and finished with a long, exaggerated gulp.

  A balcony seat was all Eddie could afford, but it was enough. From the moment he stepped into the theater he was engulfed in a whirl of ghostly memories and mixed emotions. Vague impressions of countless theaters and backstage dressing rooms swirled into one vivid image. Bathed in soft lamplight, his mother sat before a mirror applying makeup for the evening’s performance. Eyeliner and rouge enhanced her already lovely features to an unearthly beauty. All the while she softly rehearsed her lines and occasionally turned to smile or wink at her two young sons.

  The boys played near her in the crowded dressing room. Theirs was a world of fantasy amidst the satin and velvet costumes and well-worn props that flowed from the actress’s trunk.

  Then there was the performance itself. Eddie and his brother, Henry, loved to watch from the wings as she played her part, reciting lines in a flawless British accent that filled the theater with its delicate power. She fairly floated, radiant in the flaring footlights, like a vision—real, but removed from this reality, present but forever gone. Smiling, just beyond reach, through a gauzy curtain of endless ache.

  The formless notes of the small band tuning up in the orchestra pit brought Eddie back to the present. By the time the houselights were lowered, the theater had started to cast yet another spell on him. The musicians played, the show began, and Eddie’s cares were wafted away. For the next two hours the only world that existed was the one that was up there on that stage.

  A couple danced, a pretty girl sang a sad love song, dogs jumped through hoops, and a clown juggled wooden clubs and axes. Finally, after Eddie had almost forgotten his initial reason for even being there that night, the band played a little fanfare and Captain Mephisto took center stage.

  In jet black coat and snow white hair, the white-mustached gentleman cut a dashing figure. He bowed deeply and introduced himself.

  “My name is Captain Mephisto, and I come to you tonight by way of Alaska, Zanzibar, and all points in between. It will be my distinct pleasure to share with you some of the rare wonders that I have collected on my far-flung voyages across the globe. Here, for example, I hold three simple rings forged by a Chinese silversmith in the seventh century.” Holding the rings before the crowd, he proceeded to tangle, untangle, juggle, and manipulate the silvery hoops in mystifying ways. This was followed by delightful card tricks, sleight of hand, and all manner of conjuring.

  Finally he told the fantastic story of how he and his crew had saved the life of a shipwrecked old man they’d found clinging to a chest in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. It was only later that they learned that this ancient mariner was one of the most learned sorcerers of the mysterious Orient. By way of thanking Mephisto for saving his life, the sage gave the captain a priceless treasure.

  An assistant then entered the stage carrying a jeweled coffer no bigger than a shoe box. Its lid and sides glistened in the footlights as it was carefully placed upon the table in front of the magician. Bowing deeply, the assistant then made his solemn exit.

  “Within this beautiful box lies that old wizard’s most cherished possession. The thing that he valued more than all the other wondrous objects he had ever owned. No, my friends, not silver or gold, not rubies, diamonds, or sapphires—for those are mere trinkets compared to this.” Opening the box, he carefully withdrew a single piece of folded cloth. Then, as if handling a holy relic, he reverently unfolded it.

  “And even though it was woven nearly two thousand years ago, it still retains its suppleness and strength.” He ran it lovingly over the back of his hand and through his fingertips; caressing it gently, he displayed its silken thinness.

  “But within its delicate folds, deep magic dwells, for this deceptively simple fabric is enchanted.” Grasping it between his fingertips, he held it out full length before him, where it hung, curtainlike.

  “For it giveth . . .” With a graceful gesture he pulled the cloth to one side, revealing the jeweled box that had been momentarily curtained beneath it. He lifted the lid. Glistening inside was a pile of golden coins. He grabbed a handful and let them clink one by one back into the nearly overflowing chest.

  Holding the cloth up as before, he added, “And it taketh away!” Once more he whisked the fabric aside, revealing that this time the box, coins and all, had vanished.

  “Wow. How does he do that?” Eddie whispered. “His hands were in plain sight the whole time!”

  “Yeah,” McCobber marveled. “His demon must have some physique. Even I couldn’t tote cargo like that gold around. Must be all the raw meat that thing eats.”

  “But,” continued the magician, “as I said before, this cloth holds its magic deep within the weave of its enchanted threads.” He gestured with the cloth, making it appear to dance a graceful ballet. Then, running it through his fingers, he added, “Only those who know its secrets can share in its bountiful gifts.” He gently plucked from its folds first one gold coin and then another, until a small pile had grown on the table.

  “And yet, one can grow weary harvesting even the loveliest of fruits one at a time. I have learned that a bit of a twist can speed things up
considerably.” Then, as he wrung the cloth between his hands, coins began to rain from it onto the table.

  The audience oohed and applauded. “So how do I get a demon like that?” Eddie asked.

  “There you go.” McCobber huffed. “Imaginin’ that the grass is always greener. But be careful what you wish for, laddie. Your soul is a mighty high price to pay for a rag that spits gold.”

  “Ah, ladies and gentlemen,” continued Mephisto, acknowledging the applause. “Don’t be fooled. As King Midas learned centuries ago, man cannot live by gold alone.”

  “See,” agreed McCobber.

  “And,” said the captain, “a truly wondrous miracle is one that can supply its owner with all his needs.” Taking a medium-size cloth bag from his pocket, he deposited the coins one by one into it.

  “Gold is good,” he went on, “but very hard to digest.” He placed the bag of coins in the center of the table.

  “There are times when the sight of a well-prepared meal, for example, can be more welcome than a king’s ransom.” Once again he lifted the cloth and curtained the tabletop from view. “Times,” he continued, “when a stuffed foul or a plump rabbit ready for dinner are worth more than their weight in gold.” Lowering the cloth revealed no apparent change in the bag. It lay on the table as before.

  Mephisto gave an embarrassed laugh and cleared his throat. “Did I mention that this wonderful fabric originated in the far-off land of an ancient kingdom, where the English language was never uttered? Communication can be a problem even in the realm of miracles.” Looking into the bag, he grimaced, then turned to the audience in dismay.

  “As you see, intention and understanding do not always coincide.” He pulled out a white rabbit and a fluttering dove. Both were wearing white starched collars with matching black vests and ties. “These handsome fellows are indeed ready to have dinner. Unfortunately, I was hoping that they would be dinner.” The audience laughed.