Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen

“pal,” and to die was “to kick the bucket.” “Good-bye” was the perplexing “so long.”
    Assuring us “chums” that he had no intention of “kicking the bucket,” Mr. Greeley next spoke about the state admitted to the Union the previous week. Florida, a malaria-ridden swamp to which the Seminoles clung, was a land, all agreed, that would never amount to much. Georgia plantation owners just wanted it for expansion for when their cotton fields went barren. The conversation then turned to slavery, which few in the gathering supported, but when Mrs. Butler began to relate the horrors she had seen on her husband’s plantation, the implied subject of her divorce raised its unsuitable head, provoking some chilly stares around the overheated room.
    To keep the conversation civil, Miss Lynch had us break for cookies and tea. I offered my services to man the samovar, the subject of estrangement too close to me for comfort. I remained in my position behind the urn as the crowd reassembled in small knots with their refreshments. I was surprised when Miss Fuller motioned for me to join her and Mr. Greeley. Warily, I stepped over.
    “I wonder if he’ll bring his wife,” Mr. Greeley was saying.
    “I hope so,” said Miss Fuller. “They make such an interestingly odd pair. Frances, here, is going to their house next week.”
    “You are!” exclaimed Mr. Greeley.
    “You remember Mrs. Osgood?” she said.
    “With the talented painter husband?” Mr. Greeley scanned the crowd. “Where is he? I don’t recall seeing him of late. He used to dash off sketches of the ladies as easily as buttoning his shoes.”
    “He’s had a commission out of town.”
    He looked at me more closely. “You’re going to Poe’s?”
    I nodded, wondering if it had been a bad idea to tell Miss Fuller of the invitation.
    “What’s your connection to him?”
    “I don’t really have one.” I could not tell them that he’d memorized my poem. For reasons I did not fully understand, that recollection was too precious to share.
    “That’s what Frances keeps claiming,” Miss Fuller said to Mr. Greeley.
    “But I don’t.”
    Mr. Greeley’s pliable features bent into a rubbery-lipped grin. “ ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ ”
    “I have been trying to interview Mrs. Poe for weeks,” said Miss Fuller. “And Frances here sashays out of the Astor House with an invitation to their home.”
    Mr. Greeley smiled. “Well, with a beautiful woman like Mrs. Osgood—”
    Miss Fuller cut him off. “Do you realize on how many levels you offend?”
    “Forgive me.” Mr. Greeley bowed to us both. “I only meant to compliment. Are you working for the Herald ?” he asked me. “Because if you are, give me your feature and I’ll pay you double whatever they’re paying.”
    “It’s to be purely a social visit,” I said, “to Mrs. Poe.”
    Mr. Greeley grabbed my hand and rubbed my knuckles. “Let me rub off some of your magic. Poe won’t let anyone near his child-bride.”
    “As you recall, he also praised Frances’s poems at his lecture at the Society Library,” Miss Fuller said, “the evening that he crucified Longfellow.”
    Mr. Greeley winked. “And you don’t know the man at all.”
    “I don’t,” I said.
    He called over Mr. Brady, who was passing by with an empty cup of tea. “Did you know that this little lady is a friend of Poe?”
    Mr. Brady put down his cup, took my hand in his own chemically stained ones, and gazed at me through his prismatic lenses. “I’ve been trying to get Poe to sit for a portrait since January. Tell me how to influence him.”
    I laughed. “I have no idea.”
    “Poe’s asked Mrs. Osgood to visit his wife,” said Mr. Greeley.
    “You’re kidding. You’ll have to tell us what she’s like at home.”
    Miss Fuller pushed up her headband as she peered toward the entrance. “Maybe Mr. Poe will delight us with her tonight.”
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “She’s not