Free Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen

were the same. How does it feel to suddenly be adored by thousands of readers?”
    He grimaced. “To be truthful, Mrs. Osgood, I have striven my whole life to be famous. Oddly enough, now that I have had some measure of success, I don’t feel any more at ease. In fact, if anything, I feel less so. It is as if I am standing on the brink of a precipice, looking into the abyss.”
    When I saw that he was serious, I said, “Maybe you should take some time to enjoy your fame. You said you are working sixteen-hour days. You must be exhausted.”
    “Journals don’t put themselves together nor do books write themselves.”
    “Maybe you could hire someone to take over some of your editorial work.”
    “If I’m ever to run a journal of my own, I must know the business from the inside out.”
    “Is that what you are working toward, having your own journal?”
    “Yes. That is one of my goals.” He smiled slightly. “You have caught me out.”
    I thought of my own goal of establishing my literary reputation, yet it was important to me to be a good mother as well. “There are somany ways in which our hours can be claimed each day. What a shame that we only have one life.”
    “Do we, Mrs. Osgood?”
    I saw that he was serious. “Do you think we have another chance?”
    “At this never-ending and mournful remembrance? No. Our maker would not be so cruel.”
    “Then what do you suggest that we have to look forward to?”
    “You and I are poets, Mrs. Osgood.Our job is to raise questions, not to answer them.”
    I sent him a silent thanks for thinking of me as an equal.
    Just then he grasped my arm. From the open door of a saloon reeled a man with his greasy hair falling in his face, shouts and laughter trailing after him. As we waited for him to lurch from our path, I looked down at Mr. Poe’s hand. He met my eyes.
    Time strangely and sharply suspended. We were gazing at each other guardedly, as if something within us was making a connection that we ourselves feared, when Mrs. Clemm came bustling down the sidewalk, her bonnet askew and her shawl riding slipshod over her shoulders. “Eddie! Eddie! Come quick. It’s Virginia.”
    His hand trailed from my arm.
    I watched them go, he upright and polished, even at a run, she shambling and flyaway. Long after they’d gone, I could feel his touch upon me. I hoped that his fragile young wife would be well even as a silky voice whispered, I wish he were mine .
    •  •  •
    I went up to the Historical Society Library in Washington Square on the way home. My association with Mr. Poe had the exhilarating effect of making me want to write. Maybe I could support myself and my family, if I only applied myself harder. With this in mind, I strolled through the gallery, peering at the portraits for inspiration as gentlemen conversed quietly around me. A poem about Time drifted into my mind, but like so many poems and stories that shine like gems in one’s imagination, once I found paper and pencil and sat down to write, it had turned to dust.
    Frustrated, I scratched out the inane lines that I’d produced, then bent my imagination toward creating a dark tale to sell to Mr.Morris. Strangely, Mrs. Poe sidled into my mind. As I stared at the writing table, I saw her as an angel of darkness who’d come to earth in the form of a fair young woman. She charmed her admirers with her sweetness and innocence, lulling them into complacency, only to swoop in and—
    And what? Snap their necks? I laid down my pen. Not even Mr. Morris would wish to print such rubbish. Where had I gotten such an idea? Shuddering at my perversity, I packed up my reticule and left immediately.
    Eliza was sewing in the downstairs family room when I returned. She greeted me with an inquiring smile. One would never guess that a desperate sadness lurked just below her cheerful blue eyes, that she was still grieving for her two-year-old son, lost to scarlet fever not yet three years ago, and for a seven-year-old