Page 27 of Beneath the Poet's House

“I know it’s weird,” he says. “An established writer reading someone else’s work. We used to do it all the time at the one open mic in Woodsto—” He stops. “In college. Poe’s my go-to for public readings when I don’t have anything original prepared.” Emmit pauses. “In fact,” he adds, “Poe’s sort of my go-to for any challenge in writing. I feel like following an author’s recipe for success to a T—an author whose success has only grown with time—can only benefit a modern writer in establishing their own legacy.” He pauses again, and she knows he’s taking in her flushed skin, the way her hand is shaking ever so slightly as shereaches for her wine. “Is that okay?” he asks. “Have you been personally victimized by ‘The Raven’ or something? What’s wrong?”

Saoirse gulps wine from her glass, medication be damned. The figures of Poe, Jonathan, and Emmit flash through her mind, the spectral wave ebbing and flowing over the course of the séance, covering her ceiling with disembodied features, writhing insects, flickering faces.

“It’s just ... I live in Sarah Helen Whitman’s old house,” she says. “And ever since I moved back to Providence, the number of Poe-themed coincidences I’ve experienced has been uncanny.”

Emmit stares at her, mouth open. “You live at 88 Benefit Street? So, let me get this straight, you moved here from—” He stops. “Where did you move here from?”

“New Jersey.”

“New Jersey, and you moved into what was originally 50 Benefit, then 76, when owned by Sarah’s mother, Anna Power?You live in Sarah Helen Whitman’s house?You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Saoirse laughs a little bitterly, thinking of how this declaration elicited similar disbelief from Roberto, Lucretia, and Mia the night she moved in. “I live at 88 Benefit Street. It was the first fully furnished house that appealed to me when I did a search for rental properties in Providence last spring. If I had known living here would be so interesting to so many people, I would have hit the thumbs-down icon on the goddamn listing!”

Would she have, though? Sure, Poe and Whitman popping up everywhere is beyond strange, but if she hadn’t moved into the old red house overlooking the graveyard, she wouldn’t have met Roberto, Mia, or Lucretia. She wouldn’t have adopted Pluto. And she wouldn’t have been the recipient of the Brown career fair flyer that resulted in Emmit and her running into one another.

Saoirse sighs. “I guess I don’t mean that. The house is gorgeous, and its historical significance is inspiring. It’s just wild how Poe and Whitman are still so intriguing, one hundred and seventy-five years later.”

Emmit lifts the bottle of wine. “Have you read Whitman’s work?”

He refills his glass, then hers. Saoirse’s too distracted by their conversation to stop him. She says, “I hadn’t before a week or so ago. But once several, uh, fans, I guess you could call them, enlightened me as to where I was living, I did a deep dive into her poetry. She was incredibly talented. I love ‘Summer’s Call to the Little Orphan,’ and the satirical verse she composed for a suffragist banquet, ‘Woman’s Sphere.’”

“I’m partial to the valentine she wrote for Poe in 1848, months before she met him, addressed in the character of his famous raven,” Emmit says. He takes three long sips from his glass. They’re going to need a second bottle before the food arrives.

Youcan’t have any more wine,she chastises herself,and Emmit has to drive back to Providence.Already, her thinking is a little bouncy, as if each thought is a rock in a river, and she’s jumping from one to the next to get across. Still ... it’s nice to let go a little, to not feel imprisoned by her demons, by her depression. She hasn’t seen a single fly since before coming upon Emmit in the grocery store earlier that afternoon.

“Did you sayfansclued you in as to where you are living?” Emmit asks, interrupting her reverie. “Let me guess, some kids came to your house after one of the Providence Ghost Tours, asking if they could see where the grand poetess once lived?”

“God, no,” Saoirse exclaims, almost choking on her wine. “At least not yet. I didn’t realize that was a thing that might happen.” She shakes her head, takes another sip. “It was a trio of writers who ...” She decides to tell him about Lucretia, Mia, and Roberto without admitting that they’d functioned as her unexpected welcoming committee. “Well, I guess before I moved in, they had a bit of a history accessing the house without a key. Some weird little trick paneling along the walkout basement. I still need to examine it myself. They stopped by my first night in the house, wanting to meet the new inhabitant. They’re really nice.”

“So nice that they’ve been breaking into your house?” Emmit asks with a smile she can’t quite read.

Saoirse shrugs. “They’re interested in Whitman as a historical figure. And yes, they are nice. A little weird, I suppose, but, hey, aren’t all us writers?”

Emmit’s mouth drops open in mock outrage, and she smacks his arm. “Anyway, Lucretia, Roberto, Mia, and I, we’ve become friends. They’ve been good for me, helping me get out of the house, commit to making plans, stuff like that.”

Emmit frowns. “I didn’t realize you were struggling with that sort of thing,” he says quietly. “No judgment, of course. Believe me, I get it.” He reaches for her hand, stroking it with his thumb, then releases her and clasps his hands together in his lap. “Just be careful, okay. Some writers are weirder than others. I’d hate to see you open up to these people only to find out they’ve been using you.”

Saoirse wants to say that this isn’t Lucretia, with her vegan, gluten-free cupcakes. Neither is it Roberto; though he’d teased her about cleaning the basement stairs, she remembers the genuine concern on his face, his comment that they had to get her back into writing to save her from her depression. Mia was touched when Saoirse agreed to adopt a cat from her favorite rescue, and Saoirse can tell there aren’t too many people with whom Mia shares her time and ideas. Before she can challenge Emmit’s warning, however, their waitress appears with their entrées.

The conversation is abandoned for cutlery and talk of how good the first bites are. So, Saoirse is surprised when, a few minutes later, Emmit reaches across the table and grabs her arm. “I just realized something. You moved into Sarah Whitman’s house after a long bout of writer’s block, and now you’re not only writing again, but writing poetry? And fantastic poetry, at that?”

Saoirse swallows a bite of pasta, trying to ignore the similarities between what Emmit’s said and Lucretia’s words at the shelter earlier that morning. “Who says my poetry is fantastic?”

“I can tell from the earnestness with which you insist you don’t want me to read it.”

As if to punctuate this statement, a woman walks onto the stage. Saoirse looks around to see that every table in the lounge has filled while she and Emmit have been talking and drinking wine.

“Welcome,” the woman says, “to the lounge at Buon Appetito and to our weekly open mic.” The diners cheer politely, though there are a few whoops of more enthusiastic applause. “There’s a sign-up sheet at the hostess station,” the woman continues, “but we usually operate on a ‘jump up and go for it’ kind of policy.”

Emmit nudges her foot under the table. “Since I’m not reading my own work, I’ll queue things up for you.”

“No, you won’t,” Saoirse warns.

He smiles, and that smile stays with her as he makes his way to the stage.

She wants to shout after him,I’ll pour my poems into your ears if you want to hear them,and is immediately shocked by the intensity of this compulsion. Still, the image of it fills her with excitement, giving Emmit Powell all her words, tracing them onto his skin with her tongue.

As if to highlight her descent into madness, Jonathan chimes in from the depths of her skull:

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