ED SAID...

ED SAID…

I have always preferred moving to traveling because it’s more gratifying to be the star rather than the astronomer (or the planet rather than the astrologer, depending on what you believe). Thus, the prospect of dying never bothered me because my essence (or spirit or soul or what have you) would acclimate rather quickly to the afterlife. Besides, my behavior hadn’t been awful enough to land me in a fiery pit for eternity just because I’d cheated on some guy or fudged around with a minor law or two. Robbing and shooting had never been in my wheelhouse, nor had stabbing, poisoning, or suffocating. Therefore, I expected to end up in a Heaven of sorts, although probably not in prime real estate.

I died on Halloween, and the one thing I was anticipating (other than not having to pay those lying curmudgeons at the student loan company) was getting answers to some of life’s mysteries. At the top of my list was whether Bruno Hauptmann kidnapped the Lindbergh baby, who murdered JonBenet Ramsey, where Jimmy Hoffa’s body ended up, and if Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone assassin of JFK. Most important to me, however, was finding out if reincarnation was real. If so, I could try again and do better; if not, I was just gonna have to suck it up.

We know that the issue of what happens after death has been around for eons because one day long ago someone figured out how to mix his spit with ashes to imprint his thoughts on the wall of a cave. Ever since, the question has been tackled by painters, poets, musicians, novelists, filmmakers, even dancers, offering a variety of possibilities, none of which has been proven right or wrong. Well, I’m here to help with that. Although this won’t give everything away, I will provide a couple of facts for you to chew on. First, there isn’t really a gate guarded by a man named Peter who has a long flowing beard and a book full of names with a bunch of checks and minuses next to them; nor are people’s souls always met by loved ones who have been sitting around twiddling their thumbs with nothing better to do than wait for every one of their descendants to show up. If that were the case, it would mean we all were going to Hell. 

What really happens is that spirits are assigned greeters, entities that share similar interests, who show them the ropes. Envision a huge airport terminal with a conveyor belt where approximately one hundred thousand souls (the average number of people who die each day), ride round and round until they are collected by their designated guides. Since most have been ill, they are usually in their pjs, but not always. When I arrived, for example, I saw a man whose Carhartt jumpsuit was wringing wet. I heard him explain that he’d been fishing and got so excited at the size of his catch, he lost his footing and drowned.

Sometimes the best part of the experience is seeing who the souls end up with. While waiting to be collected, I saw: an old priest who had been a good man walk away with Sister Theresa; a lovely young woman with a diamond in her nostril who had been on the way to becoming a notable rapper, dance past accompanied by Tupac Shakur; an infant that died just as she took her first (and last breath) gurgle to the childless man and woman who were adopting her; a famous French playwright babble away about his Tony Award to William Shakespeare; and an ecstatic serial killer of young women, with sly eyes and a charismatic smile, actually bow and kiss the hand of his guide, the beautiful Marilyn Monroe (who turned out to be a demon in disguise). 

As you can imagine this is a hectic process which is further complicated by the fact that personality traits are retained after death, including punctuality. Hence, guides who have always been Johnny-on-the-spot greet their new souls promptly while others (MINE) keep them waiting (ME), sometimes for what feels like forever (WEEKS). At first, I practiced patience, but after watching slots empty and refill repeatedly, I began to worry. Had my spirit made a wrong turn somewhere along the line leaving my body back on Earth with organs that functioned, but no soul? I was on the verge of seeking someone in authority to find out when I heard a voice call: “Annabelle Lee. Is there an Annabelle Lee here?” Even though that wasn’t my name, I felt an irresistible urge to raise my hand. As I did so, a small man wearing an old-fashioned waistcoat, vest, and overly starched white linen shirt complete with silk cravat reached out and gathered me to his side.

“So, you’re Miss Lee, today,” he stated. 

“Actually, no, but I’m pretty sure I’m the woman you’re looking for,” I mumbled meekly. 

“That’s because they know I won’t work with a rose by any other name,” he answered, distractedly brushing a bit of lint from his pants. “Any time I let them get away with breaking a rule, they overstep.” I had no idea what the heck he was talking about but played along because I recognized this dark-haired man with soft sad obsidian eyes as none other than Edgar Allan Poe, whose poetry I admired greatly. I mentally flipped through what little I knew about him: Edgar had been orphaned while still a toddler and raised by a wealthy uncle that was so angry when his nephew chose to go to college rather than join the family business, he’d scuttled the young man’s future by refusing to send enough money for him to complete his degree. Being exceptionally intelligent and talented, however, Edgar survived by publishing short stories and poetry for magazines, and soon became known as an astute literary critic who tore into lesser writers like a starving wolf ripping through the pelt of a screaming rabbit. 

He’d occasioned a huge mistake, however when he made an enemy of fellow poet Rufus Griswold. Jealous that his competitor was not only a better writer, but also a more successful lover, the man finagled his way into being the author’s official biographer and used that position to convince the world that Poe had been a drunkard, an opium addict, and a madman whose creations were actually recaps of drug-induced nightmares. The only pictures I had ever seen of Edgar depicted someone with flaccid skin and haunted sunken eyes, a man who appeared much older than forty, the age at which he died. The image standing before me, on the other hand, was handsome and vibrant, a gentleman whose consonants were smoothed by a Virginia accent similar to that of Northern Kentucky where I grew up.     

I couldn’t help wondering why he had been assigned to someone like me who was neither poet, writer, nor a literary critic. Furthermore, my name was Susan, a moniker that hardly cast me as a muse. As I had never been shy about speaking my mind, I expressed these thoughts aloud as we strolled out of the terminal and entered a park filled with trees that soared to the clouds and grass so green it stretched before us like an emerald ocean. Because I knew that Edgar had a reputation for becoming surly when confronted with stupidity, I spoke carefully. “May I ask a simple question?” I began.

“Of course,” he stated. It seemed Edgar was not one to waste words unless he was being paid for them.

“It’s pretty obvious that I am not a literary person.”

“Ah, it is so refreshing to hear a woman who is cognizant of her limitations,” he replied, allowing me a peek into the personality that had cost him many potential champions.

“Right, um anyway, I was wondering why you?”

“At some point, you might want to work on speaking more succinctly,” he commented. “Now, I believe you’re wondering why someone as accomplished as I would be willing to waste an afternoon offering tutelage to someone as woefully unable to benefit from it as you. Correct?”

“Actually, I’m questioning why you were assigned to me when, succinctly put, my interests revolve around crime, as in who the guilty parties are and how they’ll be punished?”

A light breeze scurried by, ruffling his ebony hair, and tweaking his tie. “So, you’re interested in mysteries,” he stated pragmatically. 

“Exactly,” I replied. “I’m not looking for advice on how to craft a scary story.  My whole existence was one long tale of terror and I figured out early on that life will only be manageable when the misdeeds are stopped, and the mis-doers are thrown into prison where they belong.”

It is hard to describe what happened next. The park sort of closed in on itself, like a trifold brochure, and when it reopened, it was nighttime and we were standing in an alley between two tall buildings. One was silent and dark with a lightning rod that ran up the wall and past the roof, disappearing into the black slate above. The other was a center of chaos perpetrated by a crowd of people in nightclothes nervously chattering away with one another in French and studying one of the upper floors. Around them, men in old-fashioned police uniforms swarmed like an intrusion of cockroaches after someone had stepped on their nest. Although the main thoroughfare was lit by gas lamps, the alley was like a cave, the gloom relieved only by the gendarmes’ flickering lanterns, and a pool of feeble light that leaked from the window above. As the officials carried out their interrogations, I asked Edgar, “What is happening, here? Where are we?”

“Why this is the “Rue Morgue,” he replied stiffly, his tone bruised.

“You mean like in the tale?”  

“Ah, you are familiar with my work,” he stated, mollified. Looking at me haughtily, he continued. “It just so happens that I am credited with writing the original detective story, a genre that you spent many hours of your paltry life perusing.” Talk about touchy. 

As a matter of fact, I knew that,” I stated, feeling a little touchy myself, “but I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. As I already told you, my goal wasn’t to be the next Michael Connelly or James Patterson. I want to find out what happened to real people in real settings.”

“I was trying to make the point that there is a reliable method for solving a puzzle,” Edgar sighed, weary from coping with my ineptitude. “For years you pursued solutions to an endless list of whodunits while overlooking one of the biggest mysteries in American history.”

At that, the world again enfolded and this time when it opened, we were standing in the pouring rain on a bustling city street. Two and three-story buildings packed so tightly together there wasn’t room between them for a man to catch his breath lined the sidewalks, and horse-drawn buggies clattered past on the street. Rustling by in long dresses decorated with bows and bustles, their bouffant hairstyles covered by a rainbow of bonnets decorated with feathers and flowers, women either walked alone or in the company of men decked out in short waistcoats like Edgar’s and tall top hats. As rivulets of muddy water ran down the unpaved street, a well-dressed gentleman departed his buggy and approached the door of an establishment named Gunner’s Hall. Out front, throngs of people excitedly milled about, and when someone opened the door, loud talking and arguing, accompanied by drunken laughter escaped from the interior. “Are we going to a party?” I ask, confused. 

My guide shook his head and solemnly replied, “It’s election day in Baltimore.” He mutely nodded toward the building where the gentleman was kneeling low to the ground, seemingly speaking with someone. When he leaned back, I could see the silhouette of a man dressed in ragged attire lying there. Their conversation lasted only a few seconds before the gentleman stood and hurried inside, as if on an emergent mission. “I don’t understand,” I said. Perplexed I looked to Edgar for elucidation. 

He cleared his throat and began to explain. “The recumbent man is one Edgar Allan Poe, known for being the author of short stories, poetry, and literary critique, who is unable to stand and can barely mumble the name and address of a physician that lives nearby. Immediately upon being notified of Mr. Poe’s distress, the doctor will come to perform a perfunctory examination, then escort his friend to the hospital.”

“Ok,” I said, still not getting it.

“No one will ever be able to determine how the poet came to be here. The certainties are that he left his home in Virginia five days ago with New York as his destination and wasn’t seen again until today. How he came to be in the wrong city, wearing the wrong clothes, and in a most pitiable state, he was unable to say. At the hospital he will be diagnosed with a swollen brain, suffering from delirium and hallucinations, and will call out for someone named Reynolds, whom no one knows. After progressively worsening for four days, he will utter the words ‘Lord help my poor soul’ and draw his last breath. Friends and admirers will bury him in a local cemetery before his relatives back in Virginia learn of his death from an article in the newspaper. If you are interested in grappling with life’s ambiguities, start with this one because once you figure it out, you will know how to decipher the others. “Just remember,” he added as his visage shattered into a shower of glistening sparks and started shimmering away, “Monsieur Dupin is the key.” 

“And did you,” my newly arrived charge asks, “solve the riddle?” 

“I did,” I reply. “It took a long time, but I finally figured it out.”

“And what was it?” she probes, trying to cut in line.

“Why, that Dupin is the key.” I smiled slyly and the meadow enfolded us.