Who holds the torch for Eddie?
A search for the elusive Poe toaster
He lives…
By Lisa Rene Reynolds, PhD
Copyright 2011 Lisa Rene Reynolds, PhD
Smashwords Edition
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FOREWORD
The popularity of Edgar Allan Poe and his writings did not peak until long after his death. Many years passed with little interest in his strange and troubled life and the peculiar occurrences surrounding his death. By the time society had become captivated with his existence and distinctive demise, many of the people and details needed to fully explain the writer’s tragic experiences were long lost.
What would happen if someone tried to find out the identity of the elusive “Poe Toaster” and expose it to the world? In the process of discovering the identity of this clandestine grave visitor, might the searcher turn up other untold secrets? And maybe even information surrounding Poe’s mysterious last days?
Struggling writer, Benjamin Meeks, thinks he has what it takes to put a new and fresh twist on the coverage of the annual Poe Toaster visit. As he writes his first article--an open letter to the Poe Toaster himself--strange things start to happen. A chance encounter with a beggar with a warning, anonymous letters with clues woven into them and visits from various people who know something, but aren't telling, lead Ben to think there is much more to this Poe ritual than what others have reported.
Through frustrating dead-ends, unexpected revelations and his final conclusions, Ben has findings that could rock the world. But in the end, will he choose to share what he uncovered, or continue to guard the secrets from the public? And knowing the strength of what he may have learned, could those who were hot on his trail afford to let him have that choice?
Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?
--Edgar Allan Poe
Dedicated to:
Jeff Jerome and all the others that work so tirelessly to keep the memory of Eddie alive.
PROLOGUE
Benjamin Meeks sat cross-legged in the center of a ratty maroon carpet. The young boy, still in sagging diapers, ran his stubby finger across the rug, drawing imaginary lines between the random flecks of salmon and blue accent fibers. What made for a fun game of connect-the-dots for the child was also what made his mother’s job much easier; the busy patterned surface served to hide the dirt and grime the motel guests tracked in. And Tawana Meeks was always there to make it disappear.
There were seven rooms at the Hitching Post Motel in Pottsville, Maryland. Hardly enough rooms to stay in business, it would seem, but somehow the place seemed to carry on just fine. Tawana always suspected the motel was really a front for some other seedy business, but she didn’t really care—it paid regularly, and she could keep her son fed and clothed. And best of all, Room 7 was hers and Ben’s to live in.
On this particular day, Tawana kept her son close, as always. Benjamin sat with an array of travel-sized toiletries on the rug beneath him, mindlessly stacking individually wrapped mini-bars of soap into precarious towers. He made sure to line up the cornerstones of his edifice with carefully chosen spots on the carpet while his mother toiled in the small connecting bathroom of Room 4.
Under Tawana’s watchful eye, little Benjamin was safe, and that was all that mattered to her. On that bright autumn morning, Tawana was warmed by the primal instinct of protecting one’s child. But she would soon find the tireless efforts she focused on Benjamin were not enough. Although she had managed to keep her son out of harm’s way for three years, she had no way to shield herself from the deadly intentions that waited for her outside the door of Room 4.
CHAPTER 1
The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame which was nearly under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence, upon the rigging of the stranger.
--MS. Found in a Bottle
It was a drizzly gray evening in Howard County when Benjamin Meeks left the office. The bustle of the holidays was finally over and a new year had begun. Life had fallen back into its less-than-merry drudgery.
With a well-worn leather portfolio tucked under his arm, Ben exited the small building and headed for the parking lot across the street. He paused and scratched around in his jeans’ pocket for a dollar or some change to put in the coffee can that the corner beggar held out each day. The old Vietnamese guy sat there wearing the same nubby gray sweater, frayed trousers and work boots from dawn until dusk. The beggar leaned back against a filthy bedroll that looked as if it was twice the size of the man himself.
As he neared, Ben could see the beggar huddled under a building overhang a few steps ahead but as he reached out to toss a fistful of loose coins, he noticed the can was knocked over, the cash spread soggily on the damp pavement. The man was rocking in place, pointing skyward and mumbling something.
“Hey, buddy. You alright?” Ben squatted down, pulling his jacket up over the top of his head to shield it from the rainwater trickling down from the ledge above.
The beggar focused his eyes on Ben and with an expression of sheer terror, pointed at the sky again and shrieked. Ben looked upward and saw nothing but a bird flapping down across the top of a lamppost. He shrugged. “What? The bird?”
The beggar nodded feverishly. He appeared to be weeping. The man uttered the first words Ben could understand, interspersed between throaty moans: Crow bad luck. Very bad. All day he fly. Bird fly at you, danger is imminent. Death come soon. Come very soon.
Ben stood again. He knew the guy was a little off, but today, he seemed over the top. “I wouldn’t worry about it, buddy. Birds fly around here all the time.” He left a couple wrinkly ones and a little pile of change next to the beggar and as he turned away to resume his walk to the lot, the crow swooped downward at breakneck speed, nearly crashing into him. The word “shit” exploded from his lips as he stumbled out of the way. He could hear the beggar’s words clearly as he started towards the crosswalk:
Birds fly here, yes. Crows, no.
Far from concerned about what the beggar had perceived to be a bad omen, Ben headed out of the lot in his second-hand Honda Civic. His office building shrunk quickly behind him in the rearview mirror.
The little town Ben worked in was nestled between the crowded hubs of Baltimore and Washington. He was a staff writer at the Patuxent River Gazette. Writing for this tiny newspaper was originally intended to be a short term gig after he graduated from college. It was supposed to pay the bills while Ben played the role of struggling novelist and tried to write his first best-seller. Nine years later, with his 30th birthday looming and only thirty-two dog-eared pages of manuscript completed, Ben remained at the paper, sans the blockbuster hit that had been his dream. And today had given Ben good reason to wonder if his job with the paper was even secure.
During this particularly drab and soggy rush hour, Ben found himself taking a depressing inventory of his life. Almost thirty, a string of failed romantic relationships under his belt, no finished novel and newspaper skills that were mediocre at best. Truth be told, what Ben lacked in all these areas was passion. He hadn’t found anything or anyone who inspired him. But there, in the bleak endless sea that was his life, stood one tiny, bright white spinnaker sail; her name was Leah.
He was better off not having such thoughts. Ben had never felt so connected to anyone in his life, but Leah was thousands of miles away and would remain there for the better part of the next year. It had been her choice to leave. She said she needed “space.” So rather than taking off to join the proverbial circus, Leah chose the next best thing—the Peace Corps—and now she was residing in a tiny African village full of huge dangers; namely malaria and a multitude of strapping young natives. Ben had seen the pictures with his own eyes.
Leah said she wanted to explore her roots and delve into her heritage, but Ben had been in enough relationships to know that it wasn’t looking good if “needing space” meant on an entirely different continent. Too bad, he grunted to himself; he thought that he might have been actually falling in love with her. Fuck the bad omen. What the hell else can that stupid crow bring me for bad luck?
Ben rested his forehead on the edge of the steering wheel as he sat idling in deadlocked traffic on the road. It was probably some unseen accident up ahead. On second thought, without the sound of sirens, that scenario was unlikely. Maybe just a rain delay, Ben thought. The light drizzle had morphed into leaden sheets of rain slapping across the car’s windshield. Crow or no crow, Ben didn’t have the slightest inkling he was just moments away from the first in a chain of events that would change his life forever.
“Shit,” Ben muttered. He was just remembering his story deadline at seven the next morning. “Shit, shit, shit.” And the fact that he had no clue how he’d find the motivation to complete the damn thing. He thumped his head against his tightly wound fists gripping the wheel. The pounding of the rain mirrored the cadenced words Ben had weathered from his boss as he was leaving the office earlier that evening. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the incident to go away and hide. But it was as if he had pushed some imaginary “play” button.
“Jesus, Ben—what the hell is this?” Andrew McPherson groaned as he forcefully smacked the Gazette down on his desk. For a 16-page publication, it made an impressive thud. Ben looked down, recognizing the heading of the tiny column hidden between a large livestock feed ad and a listing of the local bowling league scores.
“C’mon, Andy, what? You don’t like it?” Ben answered, but his jocular reply was a bit too playful for Andrew’s taste.
“Knock it off, Ben. You know what I’m pissed off about. It’s not the article and you know it. Why do you constantly play these power struggle games with me? I’m tired of being tested, Ben. I’m your boss. Your editor. And I busted my ass for a long time to get here. You run this shit by me before it goes to press. Period. No more games. I see everything you submit before it’s run. Got it? No more of this special fucking treatment.” Andrew ran both hands through his ginger hair, working his fingers in, then continued in a slightly more affectionate, almost paternal tone, “You’re on shaky ground here, Ben. You know I’ve always been in your corner, trying to work with you, cutting you some slack, but...You’ve been here, what? Almost ten years? I’m not getting any younger and you’re wearing me thin.”
Ben stood wordlessly before his mentor, taking in all he had said. He had shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, unsure of what to make of Andy’s monologue. Being singled out in this way created an infuriating mix of humiliation and resentment for him. Hell yeah, he felt defensive. He’d been a good employee, loyal to the paper. Not like the stream of beginners who came on board, got their experience, and then left to go on to bigger and better writing, blogging and hosting webinars. Wary of his own angry state of mind, Ben chose his response carefully: “Thanks for your vote of confidence, Andy. I never asked for any fucking favors.” Then he stood and headed swiftly for the door.
Andrew simply shrugged from defeat and said, “And Ben—one more thing.” He held out a thumb drive that Ben recognized as the one he had submitted that morning; the one about deformed toads showing up in the local ponds.
“This story lacks enthusiasm. It’s flat. I want it redone by 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Andy! The frigging frog story? I did a fair report. I gave it coverage. No one’s even following the blog on it. Who cares about a bunch of freak-show amphibians?” He snatched the device from Andrew’s grip.
Andrew shook his head. “You just don’t get it Benjamin. It’s your job to make people interested in the frogs. Rewrite it and make me give a shit about our two-headed friends. Tomorrow. 7 a.m. I have some good stock photos for you too. I'll send them over to you later."
Before Ben could respond, Andrew’s cell phone buzzed aloud with news of a new text. The sound succeeded in quickly diffusing the intensity in the room. Andrew glanced down at the message and muttered an unintelligible word before locking eyes with Ben and saying, “I’ve got a serious problem here I need to contend with before this thing blows up on me. I’ve got to go. We’ll have to talk about this later.”
Ben glared at Andrew, muttered an attitude-laden “whatever” and stormed out of the office. He knew he was acting like a defiant teenager, but he couldn’t help it. Andrew had a knack for making Ben feel like a child.
Now, sitting in his car, forced to rehash his boss’s words, Ben recognized that maybe Andrew had a point. But dammit, why did he just have a way with annoying the hell out of him?
Ben’s thoughts were interrupted by the impatient blare of a horn from the car behind him. Ben rolled his eyes and let out an unintentional hiss as he roved his car all of an inch or so forward so that it about to touch the rear bumper of the vehicle in front of him. He threw his hands up, wrenched the rearview mirror down and mouthed, “Happy now?” to the driver behind him.
In typical Ben style, he made a sudden change in plan and snaked his way between cars to make it over to the right breakdown lane. Ben sneaked off the road, putt-putting along, trying to maneuver an improvised detour. The rain was coming down fiercely now, and Ben could feel his tires slipping through the massive pools of water that were quickly appearing on the road.
It was a raging storm, made worse by the thickening fog and the growing darkness. It was almost eerie, really. Ben squinted, crawling along and leaning forward to make out the outlines of the small side road he’d just turned on. Then, through the water-blurred windshield, he saw a pair of headlights approaching, their cobalt blue shine stabbing through the murkiness. Ben was too surprised to react as the vehicle came barreling towards him. Blinded by the flash of the lights, he had time only to clutch the wheel and brace himself for impact.
CHAPTER 2
“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “You are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed.”
--The Murders in the Rue Morgue
Hours later, Ben lay in a sickly green emergency room cubicle with only the throbbing of his left leg and shoulder keeping him awake. It was nearing 10 p.m., and he felt the fatigue of the long day wearing heavily on him. His eyes kept fluttering shut, only to snap open with the realization of his wrecked car, aching injuries, and an almost certain botched deadline for the frog rewrite. He had no way of knowing he would soon have much bigger things to worry about than the fucking frogs. What the hell had happened tonight?
Shortly, he was moved to more permanent digs for the evening. Only a slight improvement, but at least there was now a private bath and an electrical outlet to charge his cell.
He stared blankly at the stark ceiling of the new room where the white foam panels virtually glowed against the mossy pallor of the walls. He alternated his attention between counting the rows of pinhead-sized holes on each panel and making out animal shapes from the amorphous water stains. Minutes, maybe hours, inched by.
He debated whether or not to call Leah. He desperately wanted to hear her voice. And, since the death of his father two years before, she was about the closest thing he had to family. But as rapidly as Leah had darted into his head, he nixed the idea of calling her entirely. The pointer finger on his uninjured arm wavered over the tiny keys on his cell phone. No. He knew he had to face it; they were probably over.
Ben sat despondent, recognizing the stark reality of his solitude. Just as he was about to delve into deep self-pity, the bedside phone rang. Was there was someone out there who cared about him after all? Unless of course the call was an error, a wrong number, a misdial.
He shifted his body so that his good arm could reach the handset on the night table to his left. He uttered a hoarse but hopeful “hello” into the receiver.
“Jesus Ben. Are you all right?” piped the alarmed voice of Andrew McPherson. “I just got the call. What happened? Do you want me to come over?” There was a protective flavor to his words. Ben responded gratefully. There wasn’t even the slightest trace of resentment from their earlier disagreement: “Hey, Andrew. Thanks for calling. “Ben—they said there was an accident. The hospital called, and it’s not bad though, right?” Andrew continued, clearly distressed.
“I’m okay. Really. I dislocated my shoulder and my leg was pretty banged up. A hairline fracture of the fibula I think they said, but I got away with a walking cast so at least I’ll be able to hobble around. It could have been a lot worse. The guy who hit me got airlifted to another hospital. I’m thankful I’m walking away with just the leg and shoulder thing. It was kind of weird though. What happened, I mean. The car came out of nowhere. And why was he there? Coming at me like that? I swear it was like the car materialized out of thin air.”
Andrew sighed leadenly and said, “Well, it was really bad weather. I’m sure the cops will figure it all out in their investigation. Let’s worry about that later.” He then resumed his concern. “Are they taking care of you well there? Because if not, I can get you transferred over to...”
Ben interrupted. “Hey, hey, Andy. I’m really okay. It’s fine here. I’ll be home by tomorrow. Thanks, though. But about the frog rewrite...”
Then it was Andrew’s turn to interject. “Ben, not another word. I’ll run the frog story as it is. It’s not important, don’t worry about it. Let’s just focus on getting you better and out of there. What else can I do for you?”
Ben began to feel uneasy with the caretaking direction this call was taking. He always hated feeling needy. The only thing he despised more than that was getting special treatment. Before he knew it, his words to Andrew shot directly back to his work. “Give me a story. Something to cover—please. Just tell me what. I can work from home for a few days and e-mail you the article files. Okay? What do you need written for the next edition? Just tell me what you want me writing.”
“Jesus Ben, just take it easy. Rest up, take some time off. I’ve got plenty of people to cover for you. You need the time. Take care of yourself. And do yourself a favor—call Leah. I know things haven’t been great with you two, but don’t give up so quickly. She should know about this. I know how you are. You want to write her off even though you know there’s something still there. You know she still cares.”
Ben chose not to respond to the Leah comment, but silently thought—Oh, Andrew—you don’t know the half of it—if only it were so simple. After another moment of hesitation, he replied, “If you know me so well, Andrew, then you know I’ll go crazy not working—so give me something to write, dammit.”
Andrew spoke softly. “Fine, Ben. Be stubborn. I’ll give you a small piece. You don’t have to leave home and it won’t entail much. You’d actually be doing me a favor since no one ever wants to write this one. It’s kind of morbid and a bit of a challenge because it’s so boring. At the end of every holiday season, I go through the same thing. Trying to get someone to cover the ‘Poe Toaster’ visit in a few weeks.” Andrew had a knack for turning things around; doing a favor for Ben sounded a great deal like Ben would be doing a favor for Andrew.
“So what do you say?” Andrew asked cheerily. “Will you do one in the next week or so highlighting the tradition and then plan on covering the visit on January 19th? You could probably do it in your sleep, right?”
“Is that the graveyard visit? From the masked man? Without knowing that sleep would be almost nonexistent over the next few days, he reluctantly accepted. He painted his response with the appreciation he knew he should have for Andrew’s offer.
After the requisite “thank yous” and pleasantries, Ben hung up, grudgingly aware how lucky he was to have Andrew in his life. He shifted positions a few times until he could properly support his aching side and shoulder, and closed his eyes tightly. The incident with the beggar a few hours before popped back into his head. He felt a bit unsettled. Could that fucking crow have foreseen this accident? No way. He was far from superstitious but these events did seem a bit uncanny. Fucking bird.
Ben made a final call to the nurse for a dose of some heavy-hitting painkillers. She came quickly, toting a tiny ridged paper cup with a couple of pills inside.
“Thanks. You knew exactly what I needed, huh? Good timing.”
She nodded politely and asked him if there was anything else she could do for him before her shift was over. He mustered a grateful smile and pretended not to be noticing the nurse’s very attractive features. He fought off the urge to answer her question affirmatively with less than medical things in mind.
“Ah, no thank you. I think this will be it.” After an awkward moment, he added, “Actually, I have a quick question for you. Have you ever heard of crows being bad luck if they fly right at a person?”
The nurse looked puzzled. “You mean a crow, like the bird?” She filled his pink plastic water pitcher at the sink. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of anything like that. But you know, there are so many ancient beliefs and such that I wouldn’t be surprised if some group out there believes that. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering, I guess. Something some guy told me. And then some weird stuff happened and… I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Okay, then. Get some sleep, Mr. Meeks.”
He hunkered down and kneaded his fingertips into his temples. He thought of his new task. The damned Poe Toaster, he thought with weary judgment. There wasn’t much worse of an assignment in this business. He considered the angle. I mean, what is there to say? It’s been pretty much the same for fifty-something years. The shrouded guy comes, visits the grave, leaves the roses and booze. Once in awhile maybe, a little note, or maybe he shakes it up by wearing a white scarf instead of a black one, but come on, this is just so goddamned dull. It’s all been written before. The same damn thing, year after year. Thanks a hell of a lot, Andrew.
A drug-generated, drowsy stupor began to take hold. He cut short his reflection on the monotonous, mind-numbing article looming before him and allowed himself to doze off, albeit fretfully. Distant images and snippets of his childhood faded in and out of his slumber. These memories existed only in the deepest confines of his mind and always disappeared upon his arousal. He had long given up trying to figure out what was real.
A little boy crying, sobbing really, sitting with his back against the inside of the motel room door he had slammed closed, refusing to let the police enter. Despite their gentle prodding and pleas, little Ben declined to slide the deadbolt lock back. They spoke soothingly to him through the thick scarred door while waiting for backup to arrive. Psychologists would later say that he was a brave and resilient little boy. When the police were finally able to break through the wall abutting the door without harming the tiny boy, he would tell them, in simplistic terms, exactly what they needed to know—the big man pushed open the door and dragged Mommy out in the hallway. Mommy cries and there’s yelling and I see them bang her on the floor and hold her neck. Not understanding the irrevocable nature of Tawana’s limp, lifeless form, he had tried in vain to hoist his mother from her sleep. After several minutes of failed attempts, he ran back into the room. He shut the door behind him, and collapsed in an angry and frustrated heap against it. After several moments, he got up and dragged the desk chair over to the door, using all his might. Precariously perched on the rickety chair, he managed to slide the deadbolt closed. All along, the mask of his mother, blue-faced with bulging eyes and tongue, stuck in his mind like a peanut butter sandwich.
He was jolted awake by this last impression. A cold sweat left tiny rivulets of moisture trailing down his hairline, dampening his neck and chest, drenching the upper half of his bedclothes. The power of his memories never ceased to surprise him. For many years, he grappled with what he thought was the random killing of his mother. It was not until much later that he found out the truth; it was, in fact, a well-calculated scheme to remove the accidental witness to the motel owner’s illicit activity. Regardless, it had left him without a mother.
The impact of the dream pushed him to a clear-cut decision. He resolved to put every bit of effort into the Poe Toaster article and make it something for Andrew to be proud of. He wasn’t going to settle for some hum-drum coverage like every other shitty reporter did. He would put an end to the trite Poe Toaster story and find a way to spice it up, kick it up a notch. He was going to do something no one had dared do before. He was going to uncover who the Poe Toaster was and why he or she made this yearly trek. Although he didn’t realize it now, his new-found passion for the Poe Toaster story would soon be closely rivaled by the passion of those who wanted to make sure that he never found out the truth.
One minute before the 11 a.m. visiting hours began, Andrew McPherson arrived at the front desk, inquiring about Benjamin Meeks.
“Ah, let me look him up on the computer for you, sir. Let’s see. That’s M-E-E-K-S, right?” the nondescript, forty-something brunette behind the desk said, scanning down the records with her mouse. A puzzled look registered on her face. Between a series of rapid clicks, the receptionist said, “I’m not finding him in the system, sir. Let me check the spelling again. And the first name was Benjamin, you said? Ah, oh, yes, here he is—but he’s not here. I mean, he checked out this morning. I’m not really authorized to tell you anything further. Sorry, sir. Can I help you with anything else today?” The woman looked up from the screen and smiled wanly.
“I can’t believe he checked out,” said Andrew. “I mean, he didn’t call or—how’d he get home? He had a broken leg and a totaled car.” Andrew felt a poignant sense of uneasiness.
“Was he a young black man? Real light-skinned with kind of smart-looking glasses? That’s him, right? Real handsome if I were a few years younger!” The receptionist giggled self-consciously. “Yeah, I remember him. He left a couple of hours ago. I called him a cab.”
Andrew nodded, and then replaced the movement with a frustrated shaking of his head as he made his way out the double glass doors. He snapped open his cell phone and punched in Ben’s home number. After several rings, the voicemail picked up, drenching him with Ben’s playful tone. Damn. No answer. Where the hell is he? He tried the number a few more times before giving up. He was finding it harder to shake the bad feeling he had about Ben’s unexpected departure. He seemed to always have this sort of innate response to him. He should have been home by now.
He left the hospital and, hoping Ben might have been sleeping when he called earlier, decided to drive by his house to check up on him. He was worried--very worried--when he found Ben’s home empty upon his arrival. He texted him a simple, pleading message: Where are you? Are you okay?
CHAPTER 3
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at length I again slumbered.
--The Pit and the Pendulum
Ben gave the cab driver directions to his house, but it would not be his final destination this morning. He used his new crutches to hobble up the short stack of steps to his front door. The driver idled outside while he collected his necessities; some clothes, toiletries, his laptop, and a photo of him and Leah in their happier days, and stuffed them into an oversized duffel bag.
He made a final survey of the room before hoisting the load onto his good shoulder and transferring the bulk of it to the center of his back. He grimaced as the weight of the pack pulled fiery lines of aching through his muscles.
He rummaged through the desk drawer by the front door and eventually found what he’d been searching for. He slid a small, tarnished, silver oval into his jacket pocket; the object was a locket left to him by his mother. It contained two small, faded photographs. On one side was a picture of his mother before he was born. She was petite, with a shiny smile, and frizzy black hair. He could never remember her hair worn this way; he always recalled his mother’s hair pulled back severely for practicality. In the photo, her eyes glowed with a lightness and happiness he also could not recollect. He loved this photo of his mother. It was how he wanted to remember her.
The other half held a picture of himself. He guessed he must have been about two years old. Although the portrait was faded, there was a clear resemblance to the grown-up Benjamin Meeks. He’d been a cute kid with a shock of unruly hair and skin the color of weak tea. He had not inherited his mother’s ebony tone, nor the blackness of her tresses. In fact, he would spend a lifetime being mistaken for a man of Italian decent.
With only a momentary hesitation, he locked up and did a rough stagger back to the waiting cab, where the driver assisted him in unloading. With some maneuvering, he was able to angle himself in a bearable position in the rear seat, bad leg supported by the shelf of crutches. He felt the deep throbbing in his shoulder, coupled with the sharper twinges in his leg, as the cab backed out of his drive and headed towards the highway. He reclined his neck on the headrest, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. His adventure was about to begin.
At the same time he was packing and planning for his new assignment, someone else was mapping out an equally important course of action somewhere across town. He had no way of knowing how intense this unknown person’s preparation was. It was imperative that everything was thought through and planned with great detail and precision. He had no clue just how much was riding on this year’s Poe Toaster visit. And given the hoopla of last year, no one was more worried about this year’s successful visit than the Poe Toaster himself.
Seventeen short minutes later, he arrived at his new, temporary dwelling. The small, dotingly refurbished farmhouse stood out on the horizon like a star in an inky sky. As they neared the edifice, he admired the homey look to the property, complete with lovingly tended gardens and white picket fence. An undersized sign was staked in the front lawn that said Arc de Roses.
He had chosen this bed-and-breakfast for its down-to-earth beauty and minimalism. He had driven by it many times before, always noting its breathtaking simplicity. It was also close to the cemetery that Edgar Allan Poe’s headstone rested in—the place the infamous Poe Toaster would visit in a little more than a week. Maybe the Poe Toaster himself would be staying there. He only hoped now that there would be an empty room for him to occupy for the next few days while he got to work on his new project.
A generously proportioned woman with unruly graying ringlets met him at the door and took his things inside. She had warm brown eyes and a demeanor to match. A large string of freckles spanned the woman’s face. She wore a stark white apron with a busy-print floral housedress underneath. He noticed her large weathered hands as she shuffled through a pile of paperwork on the small antique table that served as a reception desk. After a few moments of rummaging around, the woman pulled out a blank index card and a room key hanging precariously from a metal ring with a glittery tag. A closer look showed him the ornamental key fob was really a rudimentary hand-hammered metal frame in the shape of a rose. The metal border was filled with rich colored stained glass in flaming ruby hues.
The woman handed him the index card and asked him to fill out his name, home address, and phone number. Then, she exchanged the card for the decorative key chain and smiled genially at him. “Room 1, Mr. Meeks. Right over there, that first door on the left. Let me help you in.” She grabbed his bag and slung it onto her shoulder like Atlas, then slid a beefy arm around his waist and scaffolded him with unexpected strength. He hobbled along next to her, stunned into silence.
After taking the key from him and swiftly unlocking the door, the woman turned to him and said with a syrupy Southern drawl, “I’m pleased to have ya’ staying with us, Mr. Meeks. Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help you out here. My name’s Ginny. Breakfast is from seven to nine and supper is at six sharp. But if you want to skip, there are always goodies and leftovers in the fridge. Help yourself.”
He spoke for the first time since he arrived. “Thank you, Ginny. You’ve been very helpful already. I appreciate your hospitality.” If nothing else, Tawana had taught him how to pull out the good manners when necessary. After a final wink, she spun on her sensibly soled heel and sauntered away, her bulky form swaying with surprising smoothness.
Her exodus left him to unpack his few things and get settled in. He plugged his laptop in to the outlet next to the bed and logged on. After scanning a list of mostly inconsequential e-mails, he pulled up a search engine and entered “Poe Toaster” into the blank window. Innumerable entries surfaced, and he perused a handful of monotonous accounts of the strange January 19th visitor. He quickly grew bored with the droning descriptions. How the hell am I going to cover this shit with a new and exciting twist? There’s nothing new to report. He forced himself to read on a bit more until the trite terms swam in his head. Mysterious stranger visits Poe’s grave every January 19th...cloaked in black from head to toe...leaving three blood-red roses...presumably to commemorate Poe, his wife, and her mother...a partially-full bottle of expensive French cognac...then slips away unobstructed into the darkness...He had to admit the stuff about Poe was pretty creepy.
Damn, damn, damn. He dug his hands into his thick, short curls, willing himself to come up with a fresh perspective. His frustration dissipated as an idea popped into his head. That’s it, that’s it! He brought up a new Word document and began typing.
He typed, backspaced, and retyped for hours before he leaned back with a Cheshire-cat smile playing on his lips. A glance at the old-fashioned, battery-operated clock sitting on the dresser told him it was nearly eight p.m. already. He sucked in a deep and satisfying breath, and permitted himself to feel the weight of a missed night’s sleep drape heavily over him. But it was not time to sleep yet.
His wool overcoat was lying in an awkward heap at the foot of the cherry sleigh bed where he sat. It took some finagling, but he was able to reach down and extract his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. The phone had been left off, but when he turned it on, there were several voicemails blinking on the panel and a number of text messages as well. A quick scroll down the recent calls list proved most of the messages to be from Andrew. He made a mental note to text him in the morning. Perhaps a passive-aggressive move? He wasn’t entirely sure.
He stabbed the letters of a text to Leah’s cell phone number, knowing that she was rarely able to access them. But what else was he supposed to do? She’d denied all his Skype™ requests. He decided to leave a voicemail on her cell as well. But as expected, the voicemail kicked in, and her thick and satiny voice came forth. He pulled a jumble of pillows between his legs to quell the hardening that was growing there as he fought off visions of Leah lying beneath him; her long brown legs binding around his waist, pulling him closer, nearly taking his breath away. He left a short, breathless message—Please call me.
While the rest of the inn was wrapped cozily in sleep, he lay staring at the dull glowing spot of moonlight on the ceiling, his thoughts filled with images of his mother, images of Leah. His eyes browsed the photo on the nightstand--Leah with her arms draped around him, their heads resting against each other. Their eyes were dancing, their contentment readable and sincere.
At some point, the mighty force of sleep took control and forced him into a thick slumber. He was just one night away from throwing himself into an article that would change his career, his life, forever.
CHAPTER 4
We glow; we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire.
--The Imp of the Perverse
Ben slept fretfully. He awoke before daybreak with the words he had so painstakingly typed the night before rushing into his head. Excitement pulsed through his weary body. He reached across the bed and pulled his laptop across the pillowy covers. He was eager to give his work a finishing examination before sending it off to Andrew.
He read through the words on the screen with excruciating pickiness, quickly cutting and adding where he deemed necessary. He soon felt the document was as good as it was going to get. After a final once-over, he attached it to an e-mail he’d opened to Andrew and hit the send button. It was done.
Feeling lured out of bed by the delicious smells of home cooking, he made his way to the bathroom to freshen up. The air was heavy with aromas he rarely had at his own home—eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. He could also make out a very sweet but slightly burned scent over the overpowering minty toothpaste foam he spat into the sink. He tucked the room key and a couple of pain pills into his pocket and headed out the door.
The dining room was nearly empty. He found himself scrutinizing each person for some sign that he or she might know something about the Toaster, but truth be told, he had no clue what exactly he was looking for.
An older couple sat in the back corner drinking steaming mugs of coffee. They smiled and chatted with one another, occasionally pausing to point out an unusual bird eating from the many feeders outside their window. The sun poured in through each of the three large windows. He hobbled over to a small table on the opposite side of the room from the other diners. He flipped over the mug on the table and poured in fresh coffee from an insulated metal carafe. He nearly over poured as a loud voice behind him caught him off guard.
“Well, good morning there, Mr. Meeks! How’d you sleep? Hear those wonderful birds chirping ya from your slumber this morning? They are so chatty this time of year, don’t ya know it.” He looked up at Ginny hulking over him, her wholesome glow overpowering him. He nodded her way, returned the requisite good morning greeting, and then got back to the task of sipping the blistering liquid from his cup. But she was not yet through with him.
“So what’re ya here for? Business or a little R and R? Nice to see a fine young man around these parts.” She cocked her head to the side, eagerly awaiting his response.
He decided to suck what he could from this conversation.
“Ah, I guess you’d say it’s kind of business, yeah. Maybe you could help me out. What do you know about the Poe Toaster visit over at the graveyard?”
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Ah yes, the infamous Poe Toaster,” she said with a devious wink. “It’s real good for business, that’s for sure. This place is booked solid that week in January. Don’t know what exactly you’re looking for though—isn’t much I could really tell ya about it that everybody doesn’t already know. I’ve never actually witnessed the visit ya know, what with being so busy here, and the laundry and cooking—I couldn’t really get away for it.”
“So it’s really busy here, huh?” He queried back, his interest piqued. “What kind of people come for this thing?”
“Oh you know, all sorts. Some tourists. A lot of locals. Some young drunk teens. Some families. But most don’t actually stay late enough to see the visit, I hear. You name it, they come. A motley crew. But all in good fun, of course,” Her eyes darted away to the other tables quickly filling up with guests. “Only a lucky few in the whole world have ever actually seen the Poe Toaster in the flesh. In fact, the only picture ever taken of him was by Time Magazine back in the ‘90s I think. And you heard about what happened last year, right? So much craziness that it practically scared off the poor guy. In fact, the curator over there is real worried it shook up the Toaster enough to consider not coming this year.”
“Wow. That nuts, huh?” He searched her face for something more, but if she knew anything else, she wasn’t planning on telling it. She smiled and motioned towards the kitchen doors. “Gotta run on back and take out the quiches. I can smell them from here. Hey listen, if ya want to talk to someone who really knows about the Poe Toaster, ya ought to give Jeff Jerome a call. He’s over at the Poe museum down on Amity Street. A little brick duplex. You can’t miss it. Jeff’s the curator there and hosts all the events and things. He’d be the one to talk to. Don’t know if you’ll actually catch him there in the flesh though. The museum’s only open for a few hours a couple of days of the week and after December, it’s closed altogether for a few months. But I’m sure he’ll have to be there a bit to prepare for the visit and all. Good luck to ya, Mr. Meeks.” She scooped a few empty plates from the table behind her and headed off towards the kitchen.
His mouth watered from the delicious smells wafting from behind the doors. Now that he had been up and around for a while, the throbbing in his leg and shoulder had returned. He shifted his position in order to retrieve the pills from the pocket of his khakis. He mouthed them out of his palm and slurped a bit off coffee to help wash them down. He didn’t think he was up for the trip to the museum but quickly squelched those thoughts by remembering his mission. He knew he had to get going on this thing. He resolved to not return home until he had a good handle on the next part of his story coverage. Last night, he had finished the first piece. The next part had to be equally intriguing. And he needed to start a blog on his experience.
He saw Ginny making her way over to him with a tray full of various plates of food. He chose some buttermilk pancakes and a slim slice of quiche with Canadian bacon. As he chewed heartily through her delicacies, he pondered where to go next. His thoughts bordered on the grandiose—attracting huge local attention for such a fresh and novel piece and best of all, limitless pride and kudos from Andrew. He would soon find out that his successful writing fantasy would not be all that far off from the truth. And no one would be more surprised than Ben.
Across town in the gazette office, Andrew McPherson sat silently at his workstation. He fussed with his shirt collar and rumpled up his temples as he had grown accustomed to doing when he was feeling stressed. He had not yet heard from Ben and there was still no answer at his home number or on the cell. Where the bloody hell could he have gone? He wondered if he should call the police.
He turned on his computer and waited patiently for the screen to come up. Instead, an annoying default message glowed in the center. “Shit...not again,” he muttered. He motioned to Noreen, the office manager. She sauntered over to him, snapped the phone headset off, and batted her doe-like eyes. “Yes sir?” Noreen drawled. A pretty little thing if she’d get rid of the big hair and garish makeup, Andrew thought. She wobbled over to him in her too-high heels and skin-tight, bubble gum pink Capri pants.
“Noreen—is your computer on the fritz this morning?” he asked. Her head bob said it all.
“Damn this system! It’s down again, I can’t believe it. Noreen—get the computer guy on the phone and get him over here now. How am I supposed to run a damn business with this?” She shrugged and hurried off to place the call. His irritation was growing at break-neck speed.
He got up from his desk, slammed the chair back into place, grabbed his jacket from the tree by the door and headed out to Ben’s house. There was nothing more he could accomplish at work right now. He silently prayed Ben would be home when he got there; then he could be pissed off at him rather than being so worried about him. It would be a welcome change.
If he had been able to check his e-mail that morning, he would have received Ben’s piece and known he was alive and well. However, that was not meant to be. His cell, holding the reassuring text of Ben’s safety, was forgotten behind in his jacket pocket hanging on the tree in his office. And so he would remain troubled about Ben’s whereabouts for the better part of that day and night. It would only be much later that evening that he would be able to pick up the text and then, he’d retrieve Ben’s e-mail and his relief would be outweighed only by the astonishment he would experience when he read the creative twist Ben put on his Poe Toaster coverage:
PATUXENT GAZETTE
JANUARY 7
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE POE TOASTER...
The holidays have passed once again, and locals are reminded of the annual tradition of the Poe Toaster visit. Most area residents know about the cryptic stranger who appears briefly at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave each year on January 19th. The event pulls people from around the world to witness the ritual of the visitor leaving three red roses and a partially full bottle of French cognac on Poe’s grave. Most people assume the offering is to commemorate the literary great. Some believe the ritual is a fraternity prank. Yet others adhere to the idea that the visits have been a family tradition, passed down from father to son for decades. Whichever explanation one chooses, one thing is certain--the Poe Toaster visits have gained a wide following over the years. It is the general consensus that Edgar Allan Poe is far more popular and celebrated now than he ever was in his living years. The ritual is fiercely protected and the identity of the visitor is forcefully guarded as well. Now that we are well into the new millennium, I pose the following question to our readership: Has the time not come to push the envelope a bit further? After 50-plus years of the same ceremonial visit, isn’t it time to spice it up a little? Time to give the people something more to sink their teeth into? Time for a tiny hint about who this shrouded stranger is or what his intent or purpose might be?
Therefore, I am appealing to the notorious late night visitor himself. If you are out there somewhere, let this serve as an open letter to you, the elusive Poe Toaster. Who are you? What is the reason for your annual trek? Just one little hint. We’re waiting...you know how to reach me.
Ben had completed the first chunk of work on his assignment. A little editing and it would be ready for press. Now all there was left to do was wait.
CHAPTER 5
I—I? How could it have been me?
--Hop Frog
Ben returned to his room only briefly after breakfast before heading out to the museum. He was intent on finding this Mr. Jerome and picking his brain. If anyone knew something about the Poe Toaster, surely it would be him.
He had called a cab from the antiquated rotary phone in his room. While he waited for it to arrive, he checked his cell phone. Another handful of desperate messages from Andrew, followed by a message from the doctor’s office regarding a follow-up appointment with the orthopedic specialist. Then came the words of Leah--he was surprised that she had returned the call so quickly.
“Hey—good to hear your voice, Ben. Hope everything’s okay there. Sorry I haven’t called sooner—I’ve been very busy with starting up the new school here. Don’t want to bore you with the details. I’m going to be hard to reach for the next few days so I guess I’ll try back sometime next week. Tried you at home too but got no answer. Take care, Ben.” The message ended bluntly. He cringed at the flatness of her tone and the obvious lack of warmth in her words—no “love you,” hell, not even a “miss you.” This relationship was sinking as fast as the Hindenburg. He wasn’t going to do the “let’s still be friends” bit with her. Frankly, it would just be painful. And too tempting to jump her bones. And that would certainly be the end of the friendship right on the spot. So it all seemed to make sense. Let it go. It was the logical thing to do.
His thoughts were interrupted by the tooting of a horn outside, sounding like a wounded duck. He assumed it was his ride, so he tucked the crutches under one arm and limped into the hallway. After a quick nod to Ginny by the front door, he continued out to the yellow checkered car idling in the driveway.
“Good morning, sir. Where will you be going today?” asked the driver. He donned a dowdy plaid cap and had too many teeth.
“I need to get over to the Poe museum—on Amity?” he replied. “Do you know where it is?”
“Ah, of course, mister, yes, I know the place. I take you there no problem.” The driver smiled largely into the rearview mirror before pulling out.
He studied the back of the driver’s head for a while before averting his gaze towards the passing views outside the vehicle. He A quick glance at his phony Rolex told him it was nearly 10:30 a.m. He shuffled around in his bulky coat pockets, searching for his cell phone. He felt an overwhelming desire to check for a voice or text message from Leah. After all, the phone service can be spotty in this area and maybe I missed her call, he thought. But after almost 45 seconds, he turned up nothing. He closed his eyes and thought back to his last minutes in his room and could vividly picture his phone standing out against the pale jumble of unmade bed sheets. Dammit! And that would mean yet another several hours before he would actually get to speak with Andrew and hear the exciting news.
Ben slid some bills across the open glass partition of the cab. The driver nodded gratefully and asked if he wanted him to wait. He considered it for a few seconds as he glanced around the nearly deserted street, save for a drunk passed out on the corner with a crumpled brown bag clutched in his fist. Finally, he declined his offer and headed for the tall door of the Poe house museum.
He was sure he had passed by here before, but he could not recall actually noticing the quaint little building. It was indeed small and made of brick, but what amazed him most was its narrowness. It looked as though someone had stretched the top floor of the house so that the result was unnaturally tapered and slim.
He tried the door handle to find it tightly locked. He pulled on it again just to be sure. A voice behind him called out.
“We’re not open to the public.”
He spun around and found himself staring at a man leaning against the lamppost behind him. The man was thin and of average height. He was fair-skinned with short-cropped brown hair, and sported a well-trimmed matching mustache. He was dressed casually in a pair of tan slacks, a white cotton turtleneck, and a navy pea coat. He adjusted the soft leather briefcase-style bag slung across his shoulder and adjusted his trendy, wire-rimmed glasses. Sensing Ben’s curiosity, he said, “Jeff Jerome here—the curator of the Poe House.”
Ben rebounded quickly. “You’re just who I was looking for. I’m a reporter writing about the annual Poe Toaster visit and…” He was thrown by a look of recognition that flashed across the man’s face as he nodded. He thought he heard the man mutter something like “yes, so I have read” but decided that he must have misunderstood him. How would Jeff Jerome have read anything that he had written and recalled it as if it were some great ground-breaking piece? No chance. So he continued.
“So I was hoping you could help me out with some research, maybe answer a few questions for me.”
Jeff stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and chuckled. “Sure. I’ll do what I can,” he responded affably.
Ben wasn’t shy with his inquisition. He went right for the heart and asked bluntly, “So do you know who the Poe Toaster is? I’ve done some searching online and a couple of sites seem to have the sense you know who it is. I read somewhere you said you really didn’t know who he is. C’mon, you must know. I hear you favor the passing-down-from-father-to-son-tradition theory. ”
Jeff smiled knowingly and a smug look crossed his face. “Look, maybe we ought to do this later. I have some things to get done this morning. How about you stop by a bit later—say 3:30’ish? And we’ll talk then?”
He returned the jestful laugh and threw his hands up in the air while simultaneously supporting himself on the crutches with his armpits. “C’mon, Mr. Jerome—you gonna keep me hanging here? Tell me who it is. Tell me who you THINK it is. C’mon—just a hint.”