“What?” Molly and I both spoke in unison. And again, “Where?”
“We have to find Jupiter first.”
“The pens? You want to go to the pens?”
“I must find him.”
“Are you some kind of Abolitionist?” asked Molly.
Poe laughed at that. “I have no love for slaves.”
“Then…?”
“I must honor my god.”
At that, Poe turned and started walking off the wharf. We were left to follow. I wondered at Poe’s meaning as Molly and I broke into a trotting gait to catch Poe. His short legs were capable of a swift pace.
After we had gone a few blocks and began up a hill, Molly tapped Poe on the shoulder. “This isn’t the way. Sean would have sold him to the Three Tun operation.”
“We’ll go there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The Sunday sale. Did you think we would organize a midnight escape? I am not so foolish as that. We’ll go to the hotel and rest.” Poe picked up his pace as we went north towards the square.
I walked beside Molly. She moved along easily, whereas my older legs and lungs struggled. “You don’t have to help us, Molly. O’Hanlon told us where the Odalisk is. Down behind Camden Station.”
“You are the arse, aren’t you?” She shook her head.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody, save a favored few, actually knows where the Odalisk is. Sean was taking you where they pick men up for the blindfolded ride to the establishment.” She clicked her tongue. “That’s where they would have bludgeoned you before your trip to enjoy Fox’s kind hospitality, you twit.”
“It’s not… Then how will we find it?”
Molly slapped my shoulder. “I’m one of the favored few, sir. Thank your lucky stars I found you.”
“Yes.” I thought for a moment. There was something I was missing. It was not the first or the last time I realized that my mind could not match Poe’s for analysis. But I comforted myself in my superior sense of mercy. “Molly, you needn’t come with us there. Just show us. I don’t want you to get hurt.” I was being sincere in the deepest way I knew.
“Well, aren’t you the sweet one?” Molly laughed – a dear, innocent sound I had not heard in my life for too long a time. “I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
“How old?” I repeated the question Poe had asked, not expecting an answer. I was surprised one more time. Molly told me.
“I’m fifteen.”
My boot caught on an uneven bit of sidewalk, and I nearly fell to my knees. “Athena,” I whispered again.
Poe never missed a step.
Chapter 18
September 30, 1849 12:25 a.m. - Evil is a Consequence of Good -
Misery is omnipresent. The tendrils of pain invest themselves in every fertile crack of creation’s pleasure at the very foundation, and twine upwards, gripping every joyous planet and star, on into the glittering filigree of its crown. This relationship is not that of some parasitical leech or worm, whatever the foul appearance or seemingly obvious miasma of decay produced in the inexorable metabolism of pain’s progress. Rather, the soul of our existence is formed in the symbiotic swinging balance of agony in its degrees and all the levels of ecstasy we may ever reach.
Likewise, the proper citizens of Baltimore sip their port in parlors furnished in Persian and plain. They tuck their children into down-covered beds and wish them untroubled dreams. Poetry is read by hospitable hearths, and music lifts from ringed fingers on the ivory of pianofortes. Meats are well roasted and cakes, dainty and sugared. Behavior is formed by convention so that bows and curtsies, a tip of a hat, places at tables, and offices of power might engender order and predictability. Custom rules the illusions of those who live on the hill above the rest. Those good people blow out their candles and pull this imagined security up to cover their necks. Their fantasies are a fragile lock on a flimsy door.
Beneath the social summit, the denizens of the noisy world hear a truer song. I have come to believe this. Though, in truth, my life has been led in the comfortable halls of higher ground. I, too, rarely heard my own footsteps on the carpets of delusion. In New York, I knew only the salons of the avenues and was ignorant of Hell’s Kitchen. That week in Maryland’s chilled autumn of fate opened my ears to a small chorus of that chaotic melody.
In the Baltimore I wandered with Poe, the creatures we encountered were more vital than I had experienced in any sonnet or story. It was a grudging admission then and remains so now. I wish the world of words could bite deeper and more often into the reality that swallowed me with a mouth full of spit and blood.
For in that lower city, the people made no pretense of safe distance from fortune’s whims. They ate and they shit where they could. They built with pride and destroyed without care. They mated and they strangled – bartered and thieved – sewed and stabbed. And if they went to God’s house, they cried rather than prayed.
As Poe, Molly, and I made our way up the hill towards the square and our hotel, we encountered a group of young men tormenting a mangy, yelping dog, heard a woman’s interrupted scream echo down a dank alley, and watched an old man dance a slow, solitary waltz under a streetlamp. I was fascinated by the bearded codger, his eyes closed as he stepped out his solitary waltz. His arms open to an invisible embrace, he spun and he glided in and out of the blue-white flame’s illumination. And above him, painted in bright colors on a canvas sign, was an intricate diorama of Noah with his arms outstretched, welcoming the animals two by two, male and female. Behind the man was a purple painted door with peeling paint set in an alcove. A filthy bedroll laid cast up against the door. He was dancing in his own pitiful home amid invisible walls and inaudible music.
When we reached the grizzled man, Molly stepped into the dance without hesitation. She was in his arms and following his lead as he twirled. She spun away from him with such grace. The old man continued the dance. He never reacted when she joined him or reached for her as she pirouetted away. He never opened his eyes.
“You know the man?” asked Poe.
Molly bit at her lip, hesitated, and then answered, “My sister did.”
“A sad tale,” said Poe in a flat, unconcerned voice.
“Your twin sister?” I asked.
Molly did not answer me. An odd expression crossed her young face that was difficult to interpret. Anger? Fear? Sadness? Or was it just a hint of a girlish smile? There was no time to consider. The old man danced on by the purple door, and we walked away.
A gratuity, a wink, and a conspiracy of no great effort sufficed to smuggle the girl into our room at Barnum’s. As the latch fell and locked on the door, I felt the last of the energy leave my legs, and I crossed the room, staggering to the bed. I collapsed onto the soft, embroidered spread and felt my head fill with a throbbing ache. The whiskey of the day had taken its warm intoxication away and left only the shards of judgment in the leaving.
“Griswold,” Poe called from across the room.
“What is it, Poe? I am very tired.” I had no desire to speak after the exertions of the day. My eyes were closed and I did not care to open them.
“Griswold.” Poe’s voice was insistent.
“Please,” I begged.
“A bit nicer than my crib.” Molly was impressed with our lodging. “Where’s the chamber pot? I’m feeling a bit tight in the crotch.”
At that I sat up. Molly was beside the bed. She gave me a mocking crooked smile. In the light of the hotel room, she was all I had thought she would be when I first strained to make out her features on the dimly lit wharf.
“Griswold.”
“A minute, Poe.” The pain in my head faded for a moment as I gazed at her.
With her hazel eyes under dark eyelashes glittering in the lamplight and the smooth perfection of her light-tanned, terracotta skin, I forgot myself for a moment – a brief moment. Molly snorted, which broke my reverie, and ducked down to retrieve the pot from its place beneath
the bedstead.
“Use the screen in the corner.” I gestured towards the Oriental silk three-panel standing near the closet door. “Next to the settee.”
“Why? Is the gentleman shy?”
“Please.”
Molly snorted again and turned to respect my request. As she walked towards the limited privacy of the peacock-embroidered divider, I noticed for the first time that the closet door was ajar. I was sure I had closed it.
“Griswold.” Poe again.
“Yes, Poe.” I turned to find him standing by the window, looking down at his steamer trunk. His arms were at his sides. His hands opened and closed rapidly like small pale winged things attempting flight.
“My trunk.” Poe’s hands stopped flapping and became fists.
I rose from the refuge of the bed and went to him. “What is it, Poe? Your trunk?”
“Has been opened.” He let out a quick push of air through his teeth.
“Opened?’
Poe knelt and ran his hand over the lock plate. “See? See the scratch? The reddish furrows? Made by an iron tool. Observe the rust.” He ran his hands down the front of the trunk onto the carpet. There were small bits of brown and black particles on the light cream weave of the rug.
“You’re sure?”
“Very.” His delicate fingers pinched up a bit of the debris. Holding it up close to his eyes, he examined it. Then he sniffed at the sample, closed his eyes, and sniffed again. He nodded his head.
“What is it? What have you learned?”
“I have learned that people are not worthy of trust, Griswold. I have learned that God often answers prayers in cruel ways. I have discovered that I am afloat on an unfriendly sea.” He smiled at me.
“Please, Poe, do not taunt me.”
“Forgive me, Griswold.” Poe discarded the nicety without sincerity and turned away from me. All his attention returned to the trunk. Rubbing his fingers together, he broke the small clump of material into motes of dust that hung suspended in a draft from the window. The specks tumbled in the air in front of his face for a moment, then Poe puffed, and they scattered into invisibility.
“Will you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Molly had joined us and stood behind me. I could feel the warmth of her on my back, though she did not touch me. “Do we have a problem?”
“We?” laughed Poe, even as he returned to his contemplations.
I turned and found the girl’s face was uncomfortably close. Her breath was not unpleasant, though it was musky. Again, for a moment, I could not speak.
“You wanted to say something?” Molly put a hand on her hip.
“Yes. That is, yes. Could you start a fire, Molly?” I stopped to clear my throat, which had become suddenly constricted. “In the fireplace. There’s wood there, and matches provided by the management.”
“Do tell.”
“Could you light the fire? It’s chilly in here, don’t you think?”
There was such a ludicrous element to the situation. Molly stood there but a foot from me. A woman. A girl. I, with my own code and strict morality, and yet she was overpowering all of my history and all of my accustomed desires.
How could I have found her so alluring? She wore a faded black bombazine sack coat, near ripped at several of the seams. Her trousers were a thin alpaca wool in a pattern of old black mixed with steel, loose and ill fitting from cinched waist to tattered strands where seams should meet ankles. Her blouse was of course, a man’s shirt – an old boiled shirt that had missed the cauldron for some long weeks. The white of the cotton had been overcome by a yellowish tint and suggested that the garment might indeed be older than its wearer. Her boots were of crinkled dry leather, in need of a proper blackening.
It remains a mystery that all my pondering since has not broken. She had a boyish walk, a woman’s eyes, and the vital force of a young girl. The sin was not hers.
She went to the hearth and began the task. I gave my attention – such as I could – to Poe, still kneeling by the trunk.
“Well, will you open it?” I was growing impatient and found myself irritable.
“Yes. There’s no more delaying it.” There was a resignation about Poe’s posture as he lifted the lid.
Inside was a great tangle of some mended trousers, wrinkled shirts, and a twisted purple cravat. Papers had been unbound and were mixed in with the rest. All the contents were askew. Poe was never known as a neat man in some of his habits, but his care for his wardrobe, no matter how mean or dated it may have been, was always of the first order. And the careless scattering of the notes, letters, and manuscripts was totally unlike him.
“It’s gone.” Poe had not even touched the misshapen pile or examined it in any way. “It’s gone.”
“What?” I asked.
“The money.”
“You had money?” I must admit that I was surprised. Poe had been on the edge of destitution for most of his life. His financial situation had only further deteriorated in recent months with the refusal of Mrs. Whitman of his marriage proposal and the difficult situation that had driven him from New York and any hope of salary in the great city’s literary activities.
Some have blamed me for the gossip that hectored Poe’s career. I denied it then. I deny it now. I have spoken ill of him, out of anger, justified and petty both. But Poe made his own enemies and spoiled his own beds.
“How much was taken?” I asked.
“I had most of fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Where did you come by that?’
“Subscriptions for my new monthly.”
I had heard of his long planned and often postponed ambition. “The Stylus?” That was his imagined title.
“Yes.”
“And the money is gone?”
“Stolen.”
“Unthinkable.” I recall feeling a touch of satisfaction at that moment. I can only surmise that it was out of jealousy. I would have traded my wealth and security for his talent in the moment it took Satan to draw the contract. As it was, I retained my earthly allotment, and I tell his immortal tale. It is the most just penance I can imagine.
Poe sat back on his haunches. His eyes looked beyond me. I followed his gaze and realized he was watching Molly. The girl had built a three-log stack and had piled the kindling from the copper bucket under the irons. With the grace that I always noted in her movements, she stood and moved a vase on the mantle aside to retrieve the small tin box of matches and flint from where it sat, near hidden. Then, with another smooth motion, she sat down in front of the hearth and after only two strikes, caught the match and then the kindling ablaze.
“Your closet, Griswold.” Poe again broke her spell over me.
“My closet?”
“You’ve left it open.”
“Yes, I noticed… Oh, my God.” I nearly ran across the room and pulled the closet door fully open. It swung wide with a squeak in a hinge and revealed another scattering of clothes and belongings. “Oh, no.”
“Your money?”
“My money? Why, no. I have that on my person and some on deposit in the hotel safe. But they have torn my best coat. I held up my black silk waistcoat. The pockets had been ripped out. “Why? And here in the city’s finest hotel.”
Molly began to laugh. Poe joined her.
The girl’s laugh was genuine, but Poe’s seemed dry and forced. And while Molly looked at me, enjoying her merriment at my expense, Poe looked at her. There was a perverse intensity in his black eyes, and I felt the jealousy stir again.
As quick as Poe had begun, he stopped. “How much do you have, Griswold?”
“What?”
“How much money do you have?”
It seemed a rather rude question, but I answered. “Two hundred dollars in the safe. Twenty five in my purse.”
“Well, there we are.” Poe leaned back. Still on the floor, he put his back on the wall beneath the window. Something caught his eye behind the thick velvet curtain on his right. “What’s this?�
�� He retrieved a small brown apothecary bottle. It was half full, and its white label was marked with a black scribble. “Well, this is interesting.”
“What is it?”
“My laudanum. It seems Mr. Nabbity dropped it.”
Molly was looking into the fire as it grew stronger. “So, you figure that fucker Allie Nabbity was here?”
“None other. Helped sweet Sean nab Jupiter and in the process nipped the potion.” Poe waved the brown bottle.
“Aye, Allie drinks whatever’s poured,” said Molly.
“Lost the bottle breaking my lock. Used his grave tool, I’d wager.” Poe opened the bottle and took a small sip. Then he pushed the cork home with the palm of his hand and stood up. “It’s time to retire, fellow conspirators. We have a difficult day ahead of us on the morrow.”
“You’re going to save your nigger, still?” Molly asked, never taking her eyes off the flames.
“We will,” said Poe settling down in the overstuffed chair.
“Why not just buy him back?” I tossed my ruined coat onto the pile in the closet. “How difficult could that be?”
“Have you ever bought a slave, Griswold?”
“No. But my man Scipio…”
“Was inherited, as I recall hearing.”
“Yes. And then I freed him.”
“Fucking freed your personal nigger? New York is a strange place.” Molly used the poker to adjust the top log. The fire was catching nicely. The room was starting to warm.
“We can’t buy Jupiter.” Poe put the bottle on the occasional table.
“Why not?”
“You are a stupid fuck, ain’t you?” Molly shook her head. “Big buck like that. Breeding stock potential. Shit, he’ll be a stud, and with his size, he’ll please those ebony mares.” Molly’s laugh was harsh, and her face in the red firelight seemed far older than her age for a moment. “That’s an expensive piece of meat.”
“She’s right.” Poe was rubbing his face with his hands. “Jupiter will bring near a thousand dollars, maybe more.”
“Do we need him?” I asked. “We have Molly now to help us.”
Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe Page 13
