Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  “I fear you will never come back.” I hear tears in her voice.

  “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.”

  She laughs, drying her tears. “Henry would slap me from the grave.”

  “No doubt he would.” The chickens scatter again at our laughter.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  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.”

  “I feel rich, and rich we will all be in no time.”

  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.

  “Your son?” I ask.

  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.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I love the gleam in his eye.

  “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.”

  “I have great faith you will not.”

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  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.

  She cries out to me, “I am making the last morsel for my dying babe.”

  I crunch on debris underfoot and see there are bleached bones everywhere.

  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.”

  “And I’m very fortunate that you did.”

  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 take that in all appreciation.”

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

  “I will never stop trying to please you.”

  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 w
eakness. “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?”

  I stare at the words over and over.

  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.

  He throws the paper on my desk. I’ve never seen him so red.

  “What is this?”

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

  “Have you found fault with my analysis?”

  “Analysis? You call this abuse an analysis? I call this bullying.”

  “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.

  I instantly feel the surge of embarrassment rise to my cheeks.

  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.

  Chapter 24

  The ride home to Baltimore is too long, I worry I might arrive and Virginia and Muddy will be gone. I’m in such a rush I forget my trunk and the driver screams, “Poe!” from the seat over the hustle and bustle of the street. As I return for my trunk, a hearty slap on my back stuns me. I spin around to see Mr. Kennedy’s jolly grin.

  “Poe, my boy. Back for a visit so soon?”

  Oh, how was I going to tell him of all people what occurred with Mr. White? I thought to lie, but his glad eyes keep me from such treachery. “Mr. White has given me leave in response to a depression of spirits.”

  His knowing eyes translate, but instead of turning his face to judgmental-stone, it softens even more and his heavy arm brings me into him in embrace. “Oh, we all have known difficulty, but it’s those such as you and I that can rise out of the ashes again.” I heave the small trunk on my shoulder and he walks with me down the busy side street. “Mr. White was proclaiming your every ability in his last letter to me. He is a man of impeccable discipline, but he has a kind heart. When you feel up to it, all you need to do is ask for another chance and I have no doubt he will grant it.”

  “I was in desperate need of such optimism, sir.”

  “We all need our cheerful friends.” He takes a long puff off the cigar, reddening the tip. “These trials will only improve your depth of writing. No one wants to read about ceaseless sunshine and rainbows.”

  We reach the street where Biddle Street parts and he stops walking. “Be sure to come for supper again while you are in transit. I have missed your conversation.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  He saunters down his street and takes the sunshine with him. The houses become progressively dingier and the streets louder as I near our boarding house. As soon as I see Virginia’s delicate stature endlessly hanging mounds of laundry, I almost cry out in joy.

  I drop my trunk at the door and scare her with the thump. She can’t even get a word in before I sweep her up in my arms. “Oh, Sissy, you haven’t abandoned me yet.”

  She pulls back with a smile. “You have so little faith in me?”

  “Where is Muddy?” Usually she hangs the laundry.

  “She has gone to post the letter you were too impatient to wait for.” She giggles and every worry lifts from my shoulders.

  “Hopefully, telling me that you are not going to flee into Neilson’s care?”

  She grabs both my shoulders and stares. “We are a family and we are going to cling together, no matter how terrible the storm.”

  I hug her so tight she can hardly breathe. “Off!” she squirms out, laughing. “Please don’t tell me you quit your job to come check on us.”

  “Well, it did result in me being able to return.” My smile doesn’t fool her.

  “Oh no, Edgar.” She drops the shirt she’s in the process of hanging to her waist. “You were let go.”

  “Only because I was so worried about you both, but Mr. Kennedy has assured me Mr. White will take me back again if I re
pent.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “There is only one we must do. You and Muddy must come back to Richmond with me. I won’t be able to survive the absence any longer. I will marry you and we will all be together, like Henry wanted.”

  A flash darts across her eyes at the mention of Henry—a pain of memory that surprises you like a knife to the back. She regains the normal happiness of her face and says, “It is the only way we can all stay together.”

  “Good then, we’ll convince Muddy tonight.”

  When you grow up in crisis anything stable seems like paradise. High hopes and aspirations are worlds away, like dreaming to fly when you are only a fish. Virginia, Muddy, and I only want simple and paid for; no more bread and butter dinners, no more tea without cream, no more taking laundry in to pay the rent.

  The three of us hurry to town hall where we request the marriage license. The man at the counter asks Virginia her age and Muddy breaks in with a believable lie that she is fourteen turning fifteen soon, when she is only thirteen. The clerk looks my twenty-seven-years up and down and reaches for the papers rather unwillingly. “A child should not be permitted to make such an unprepared entrance into adulthood, but I’m sure a mother would not lie about such a thing.”

  Muddy stretches to her full height. “I have no apprehension about this marriage and I trust every intention of Edgar Poe.”

  “Sign here,” is all he says.

  We both sign our most artistic signatures. Virginia grabs the paper as I hold the tall door open.

  “I’m officially a Poe now, like you, Ma!” She spins around gracefully and clutches the papers to her child-bride breast. “We’re all Poes.”

  “Now Edgar just needs to make the name famous.” Muddy smiles like I could.

  “Let’s see about getting my job back first.” I wink at both of them as we splurge on a ham bone, potatoes, and peas for a celebration stew. We dine for the last time in the little room Henry danced in and pack up all Muddy’s life’s belongings into three large chests. Virginia pouts as she runs her fingers lovingly over the keys of her piano. “Father bought this for me a year before he died.”