Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen

inside a wall. Its mauled, dead body yowled from behind the bricks: Meow. MEOW. MEOW .” He stamped at the boy. “HISS!”
    The boy pelted away.
    Mr. Poe delved into the sack and pulled out the kitten, which clung to the burlap with its clear pink claws.
    I hesitated, then approached Mr. Poe as he extricated it. “I saw you save the kitten.”
    He looked up, stroking the crying animal.
    I touched the fur that grew in fine furrows on the top of the kitten’s head. “That was an excellent tale to scare the bully off.”
    “It’s from my story, ‘The Black Cat,’ changed a bit for the occasion.”
    I had not read the story—in truth, of his works, I’d only read “The Raven,” as I did not want his style to influence mine. Even that poemhad been enough to get a view through his dark, severe lens. But he did not seem to see my look of embarrassment for he turned the kitten to his face and said, “What to do with you?”
    “It seems that your wife was better today.”
    He glanced up sharply.
    “Her cough was better.”
    “Do you think so?”
    His expression was so bleak that I said, “Yes. Much better than when I saw her last.”
    He stroked the kitten’s cheek. Weary from its ordeal, it had stopped mewing and had closed its eyes.
    I smoothed the kitten’s face in a similar manner. “Poor little fellow.”
    “I appreciate your coming,” said Mr. Poe. “This is the best day we have had in a long time.”
    With all his recent success? But I saw that he was serious.
    He regarded me deeply, as if trying to speak with his eyes. “I was touched,” he said quietly, “by your remark about seeing one another’s souls.”
    “Do you believe that’s possible?”
    “First you must believe there is a soul.”
    “Do you?”
    “If by a soul one means the creature who lives within each of us, a creature born loving, born joyful, but who with each worldly blow shrinks more deeply into its shell until at last, the poor desiccated thing is unrecognizable even to its own self, yes. I do.”
    I could feel him gazing at my face, urging me to look at him.
    “Our soul is as much a part of us as our hands or our voice,” he said quietly, “yet we are terrified to acknowledge it. Why is that?”
    Slowly, I lifted my eyes to meet his. I would not look away even though it was wrong for me to interact with a married man in this intimate manner. And what I saw within his dark-rimmed eyes—not just with my own eyes, but perceived powerfully, clearly, with an unnamed sense—made my chest ache with joyous recognition. A smile of wonder bloomed simultaneously upon our faces.
    I became aware of the blacksmith leading a horse toward his shop. Mr. Poe glanced away, then shielding the kitten, stepped aside. The smith and horse passed.
    The connection, so vivid only a moment ago, had been broken. Now that we had experienced such intimacy, we could no longer bear to look at each other. We focused on the kitten, cradled now against Mr. Poe’s chest.
    “I am looking for poems for my journal,” he said as we petted it. “I realize that all of your work must be spoken for, but if you should ever be looking for a venue, I would be honored if you thought of me.”
    “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I will.”
    Almost shy now, he looked down upon the kitten, which had begun again to mew. “I think he’s rather desperate.”
    “May I?” I reached for it as a hackney carriage rattled up the cobblestones. The vehicle stopped down the street from Mr. Poe’s lodging. A woman got out, her bonnet hung with veils.
    “Who are these shrouded women?” I asked. “I’ve seen them several times now. Are they in mourning?”
    He glanced in the woman’s direction. “So to speak, yes.”
    “Who have they lost?”
    “That is Madame Restell’s place of business.” He saw that I knew who he meant. “I did not know it when we took the place for rent or I would have thought twice. Virginia has not yet discovered it. I fear it will not sit