stood next to the sofa, quietly paging through a book.
Mrs. Poe smiled at me over the rim of her cup, her eyes a remarkable clear violet within the familial frame of dark lashes. Her skin, I noticed, was nearly as translucent and white as the cup itself. One could just make out the tracery of blue veins beneath it, giving one the odd sense that another creature altogether lurked just inside her flesh.
She put down her cup as carefully as a child playing at tea. In an overly serious voice, she asked, “Tell me how you came to write ‘Puss in Boots.’ ”
“It was a few years ago,” I said. “I was reading the stories of Charles Perrault to my children—”
“Oh, you have children! How old? Boys or girls? How many?”
“Girls. Ellen is going on nine and May Vincent, whom we call Vinnie, is nearly six.”
“Oh, how lovely! Eddie and I are dying to have children! I want to fill a house with them.”
“First we must get the house,” said Mr. Poe, turning the pages.
“I do like the countryside!” said Mrs. Poe. “We just moved from the prettiest farm overlooking the North River. It had orchards and cows and chickens, but we had to be closer to Eddie’s office. I do miss the lovely fresh air. Do you find the city air agreeable for your daughters?”
I raced to keep up with her train of thought. “More agreeable than in London.”
“You’ve lived in London!”
“My girls were born there.”
“I want to live in London! I want to live in Paris!” She pushed out her lower lip. “But Eddie won’t let us.” She changed the subject before I had to. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
Mr. Poe looked up.
Mrs. Poe glanced between us. “Eddie? Did you know that? That’s where Eddie’s from. No wonder he likes you.”
Mr. Poe “liked” me?
“I was merely born there,” he said coolly. “I have no memory of the place.”
“More coffee?” asked Mrs. Clemm. When she flew forward with the pot, I saw that her bonnet bore the same singe marks from ironing as the tablecloth.
“It’s so wonderful that you write stories for children,” said Mrs. Poe. “I want Eddie to write them when our children come. I won’t let him read them his scary stories. They would frighten our poor babies to death. You must think Eddie is terrifying, but he’s not. Are you, Eddie?”
He did not respond.
“Do you read much French, Mrs. Osgood?” asked Mrs. Poe.
I scrambled to connect the loose ends of the conversation—oh, the Perrault. “At times. ‘Puss in Boots’ is my translation—with my own twists, of course.”
“Eddie does likewise.” A hint of boastfulness crept into Mrs. Poe’s voice. “He takes German and French stories and makes them into his own.”
“Actually,” said Mr. Poe, “they are more like inspirations.”
“His stories are better than anyone’s.” She gave me a challenging look.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure that’s true.”
Mr. Poe scowled.
“A little more coffee?” cried Mrs. Clemm.
“Eddie has taught me French,” Mrs. Poe announced. “He says Ispeak it like a Parisian. Might you have any books you can recommend to me in that tongue?”
She was smiling expectantly at me when she started to cough. I sat back, sipping coffee politely as she coughed first into her fist, then into the handkerchief Mr. Poe produced from inside his coat. The cat fled from the sofa. Mrs. Clemm urged her daughter to drink the hot coffee, and when Mrs. Poe could not down that, she jumped up, retrieved a bottle of medicine from the back room, and poured Mrs. Poe a spoonful. Mrs. Poe could not stop coughing long enough to take it. On she barked as Mr. Poe rubbed her narrow back, each paroxysm wringing her lungs tighter until the flesh around her nose and lips were blue.
“Shouldn’t you get her out into the air?” I asked helplessly.
“Virginia!” Mrs. Clemm bleated, spilling the medicine on her spoon. “Breathe! Breathe!”
Mrs. Poe convulsed in silent spasms, until at
Mrs. Poe smiled at me over the rim of her cup, her eyes a remarkable clear violet within the familial frame of dark lashes. Her skin, I noticed, was nearly as translucent and white as the cup itself. One could just make out the tracery of blue veins beneath it, giving one the odd sense that another creature altogether lurked just inside her flesh.
She put down her cup as carefully as a child playing at tea. In an overly serious voice, she asked, “Tell me how you came to write ‘Puss in Boots.’ ”
“It was a few years ago,” I said. “I was reading the stories of Charles Perrault to my children—”
“Oh, you have children! How old? Boys or girls? How many?”
“Girls. Ellen is going on nine and May Vincent, whom we call Vinnie, is nearly six.”
“Oh, how lovely! Eddie and I are dying to have children! I want to fill a house with them.”
“First we must get the house,” said Mr. Poe, turning the pages.
“I do like the countryside!” said Mrs. Poe. “We just moved from the prettiest farm overlooking the North River. It had orchards and cows and chickens, but we had to be closer to Eddie’s office. I do miss the lovely fresh air. Do you find the city air agreeable for your daughters?”
I raced to keep up with her train of thought. “More agreeable than in London.”
“You’ve lived in London!”
“My girls were born there.”
“I want to live in London! I want to live in Paris!” She pushed out her lower lip. “But Eddie won’t let us.” She changed the subject before I had to. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
Mr. Poe looked up.
Mrs. Poe glanced between us. “Eddie? Did you know that? That’s where Eddie’s from. No wonder he likes you.”
Mr. Poe “liked” me?
“I was merely born there,” he said coolly. “I have no memory of the place.”
“More coffee?” asked Mrs. Clemm. When she flew forward with the pot, I saw that her bonnet bore the same singe marks from ironing as the tablecloth.
“It’s so wonderful that you write stories for children,” said Mrs. Poe. “I want Eddie to write them when our children come. I won’t let him read them his scary stories. They would frighten our poor babies to death. You must think Eddie is terrifying, but he’s not. Are you, Eddie?”
He did not respond.
“Do you read much French, Mrs. Osgood?” asked Mrs. Poe.
I scrambled to connect the loose ends of the conversation—oh, the Perrault. “At times. ‘Puss in Boots’ is my translation—with my own twists, of course.”
“Eddie does likewise.” A hint of boastfulness crept into Mrs. Poe’s voice. “He takes German and French stories and makes them into his own.”
“Actually,” said Mr. Poe, “they are more like inspirations.”
“His stories are better than anyone’s.” She gave me a challenging look.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure that’s true.”
Mr. Poe scowled.
“A little more coffee?” cried Mrs. Clemm.
“Eddie has taught me French,” Mrs. Poe announced. “He says Ispeak it like a Parisian. Might you have any books you can recommend to me in that tongue?”
She was smiling expectantly at me when she started to cough. I sat back, sipping coffee politely as she coughed first into her fist, then into the handkerchief Mr. Poe produced from inside his coat. The cat fled from the sofa. Mrs. Clemm urged her daughter to drink the hot coffee, and when Mrs. Poe could not down that, she jumped up, retrieved a bottle of medicine from the back room, and poured Mrs. Poe a spoonful. Mrs. Poe could not stop coughing long enough to take it. On she barked as Mr. Poe rubbed her narrow back, each paroxysm wringing her lungs tighter until the flesh around her nose and lips were blue.
“Shouldn’t you get her out into the air?” I asked helplessly.
“Virginia!” Mrs. Clemm bleated, spilling the medicine on her spoon. “Breathe! Breathe!”
Mrs. Poe convulsed in silent spasms, until at
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