Nevermore

Edgar Allan Poe, NYC, 1980s

I saw their faces through the police car window. His was pale, hollowed, with eyes darker than the black cat that always seemed to cross my path. He was not sorry, he was not scared. He was proud. He sat next to the girl; she refused to look at him, keeping her frightened eyes on the weaving metal wires that separated the back seats from the front. He had called her Virginia. I remembered my brother’s blood running like red ink down her snow white throat. I remembered her black, tear-stained scarf.

The lights on the car whirled red and blue, making the scene around me seem more chaotic. He turned his head to look out the window and met my gaze. I wondered what I looked like from his point of view; my hair dusted with powdery concrete, gashes on my arms and face, my fists shaking with rage as I held tight to Damian’s shirt. His thin, bloodless lips pulled into a sneer as the car pulled away. He turned his head; his job here was done.

~ ~ ~

When I followed my brother out of our apartment building at ten o’clock on the 2^nd of November, 1982, I knew that he would turn down the alley a couple blocks down, that he would go to Hal Dreary’s Tavern, that he would have a few too many shots of vodka. I had no way of knowing that he would get in a fist fight with a twisted poet and stumble into the dark parking lot; that he would see a young girl alone on the sidewalk crying over a broken promise; and that he would take revenge against the man that lost him his dignity. Damian had never had a history of violence. Yes, he had a temper, and yes, he drank too much, but that didn’t mean he was a bad person. Until that night.

Tuesday nights at the tavern were not usually crowded, considering it was on the dangerous outskirts of New York City. Tonight only a few men sat with their heads hung at the bar, occasionally sipping their strong margarita or whiskey. I slid onto the stool next to Damian and ordered a beer. All of the men here tonight were regulars, save one.

He had longer hair and a small mustache. The bags under his eyes were such a deep purple it almost looked as though he had two shiners. His skin was a milky grey, and he looked malnourished. The man seemed like someone with a tragic past, one who saw death as some sort of abstract beauty. The man made my skin crawl.

After Damian’s fifth shot of vodka, he lit a cigarette and dragged me across the bar to meet this strange man. After many extravagant hand gestures and failed attempts at a coherent sentence, Damian managed to mumble, “Name.” and looked at the man expectedly.

The latter kept his eyes on his gin and muttered, “Allan Poe. Edgar Allan Poe.” A bell rang in my head as I recognized the name. He had written many grotesque poems and short stories that appeared in magazines that were sold in newspaper stands. Some said they outdid Stephen King’s work. “Yourselves?” he rasped.

“Damian,” my brother said, slapping his chest. “Caleb- brother.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and took a drag of his cigarette. Damian and I sat down, with Poe on the other side of Damian. The bartender brought our drinks over. “You are that guy. The guy who likes death. In the magazines,” Damian slurred. Poe responded with a sip of his gin. “That raven guy. The guy who, who ‘quoths’!” Damian wheezed with laughter. I knew Damian was too drunk, I knew Poe decided he did not like him, I knew we should leave. “A talking bird! Quoth!” Damian’s laughter caused the rest of the men in the bar to look up. Some shook their heads and went back to their drinks; others watched curiously. Damian sucked on the end of the cig once more and blew the smoke in Poe’s face. He grinned broadly, showing crooked yellow teeth. “C’mon bird man. What do ye quoth?”

Poe stood up slowly, his dark eyes locking onto Damian’s face. He took the cigarette from Damian’s lips and threw it on the ground. The toe of his shoe slowly crushed it until all that was left was ash and paper. “Nevermore,” he whispered. Poe drew back a fist and slammed it into Damian’s eye socket. Damian slid off the stool and clattered to the floor, his beer glass shattering. I helped him scramble up. Poe looked at me and cocked his head.

“We’ll go,” I said cautiously, and started to pull Damian’s wrist in the direction of the door.

“No! This bastard is gonna get a broken skull if I have any thing to say about it!” Damian shouted.

“We’re going!” I hissed and dragged him into the parking lot. Once outside, I looked through the clouded window of the bar and saw Poe sitting at the bar again calmly drinking his gin, as if nothing happened.

The parking lot was almost empty, barely illuminated by the corner streetlight. “What, you trying to get us killed?” I yelled. But Damian wasn’t paying attention; instead he was looking toward the curb, where a young girl sat. Her dress was white and so thin I could see the bumps of her spine run from her neck to the concrete. She must have been freezing in the late fall season. Her sobs were muffled by a black scarf that she held against her mouth. “Damian…” I muttered, shaking his shoulder gently.

“Let’s go check it out,” he said, and started to walk forward.

“Damian! We shouldn’t, let’s just go…” But he only waved his hand dismissively. I looked around the dark lot, unsure. I followed him anyway.

She jumped and turned around when she heard our footsteps. Damian held up his hands, palms up. “It’s okay, we’re friends.” She looked back and forth between us with panicked eyes. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Damian sat down next to her. I went a bit farther off, but stayed in earshot, and sat on the back bumper of a red Camry.

“Now what’s wrong, pretty girl?”Damian asked, sliding closer to her. She sniffled and wiped her nose on the black scarf.

“My husband and I just moved here… Edgar promised me he’d stop drinking. But sure enough, he’s in there downing glass after glass…” Her voice broke when she said promise. Damian’s eyes flashed.

“Your husband? You look too young to be married.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know… I don’t know any more…”

“Because that’s really too bad- you being married and all. I’d like to get to know you better,” Damian purred, sliding his hand over her thigh and moving it under the hem of her dress.

“I- I…” The girl’s throat seemed to close up. She was going to let him push her back onto the pavement, let him lift up her skirt; let him fumble with his pants zipper. I wasn’t going to let him do that.

“NO! Damian!” I pushed myself from car. Just then the girl found her voice and she screamed. She screamed and kicked and cried even harder. I tried to pull him off her, but he was heavy and he fought back. His fist swung and missed my jaw, striking my throat instead. I clutched my neck, unable to breathe. I heard the door of the bar burst open and the sound of feet running toward us.

“Virginia!” Poe came crashing into Damian, and sent him rolling into the deserted side street. He pounded Damian’s jaw, splitting his upper lip. The girl tried to pull her husband away, but he pushed her back, smearing my brother’s blood on her neck. It trickled along her collar bone and stained her white dress. I caught my breath and rushed over. I hauled Damian out from under Poe, pulling him to his feet.

“Run!” I yelled, and we ran. The streets were dark, and the sound of our feet slapping the pavement mixed with the bustling noise of traffic. We ran past our apartment and down the steps toward the subway, Poe close behind. Madonna echoed through the concrete tunnel, girls with big hair dancing to the beat. We jumped the turn styles and slipped through the graffiti-covered doors just as they were closing.

We hung onto the metal handles attached to the ceiling, the people in the seats not even looking up at the sound of our rattling breaths. The train sped through the underpass.

I stared at my brother. No, he couldn’t be my brother, not after that. Was he so drunk that he’d harm an innocent little girl? I was surprised the other passengers didn’t notice the waves of hatred that rolled off of me toward him. He looked up.

“Caleb. Get off. Next stop get off.” I shook my head. “Caleb!” I stared him down. He was right, I shouldn’t stay with him. The train stopped and I stepped onto the platform without another look at him.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, November 7^th, 1982. Damian and I were on the subway headed back to our apartment from Piccolo, a bar in the inner city. I had insisted that we still shouldn’t go back to Hal Dreary’s, if we had to go to another tavern at all. Our subway car was quiet, the men and women too unfriendly to strike up a conversation with each other. I watched Damian shiver from the alcohol as he held onto the silver bar on the ceiling.

I thought about that night about week ago now, when Damian was in this same position: grasping the handle like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing, cheeks flushed and stomach churning from the vodka. Was this who he really was? Is this what the alcohol did, dissolve the icy exterior to reveal the repugnant man that is my brother?

A metallic screech pierced the silence, and the sensation of flying overtook the train. A blinding white light scorched our eyes as the subway car flew off the tracks and smashed into the side of the tunnel. Glass and metal cut in every direction, slashing my skin and sending warm blood gushing down my face and arms. Passengers were thrown like rag dolls across the car. The concrete was crushed to dust and clouded the air, making it impossible to see. The whole thing was noise and pain and chaos. It was over in a minute and a half.

It took the paramedics, police and fire squad about ten minutes to arrive. Ten minutes to allow the dust to settle. Ten minutes of looking at my brother lying dead a foot away from me.

It was as dark outside as it was in the tunnel, the only luminescence being the orange streetlights and the flashing red and blue police lights. People were shouting and crying and praying and running everywhere. The medics had Damian on a battered red stretcher.

What happened? A derailment? What caused it? Was it on purpose? Who do you think did it? Suspects, really? Witnesses? A confession? Over 100 dead! What kind of person could do such a thing?

Voices of onlookers, policemen, victims swirled around me.

Two cousins, a man and a girl. Married? My god… But she’s so young! How did they do it? A metal bar across the tracks! Did they say why? Oh, well, they have a confession, that’s good enough for the judge.

It was then: I saw their faces through the police car window. His was pale, hollowed, with eyes darker than the black cat that always seemed to cross my path. He was not sorry, he was not scared. He was proud. He sat next to the girl; she refused to look at him, keeping her frightened eyes on the weaving metal wires that separated the back seats from the front. He had called her Virginia. I remembered my brother’s blood running like red ink down her snow white throat. I remembered her black, tear-stained scarf.

The lights on the car whirled red and blue, making the scene around me seem more chaotic. He turned his head to look out the window and met my gaze. I wondered what I looked like from his point of view; my hair dusted with powdery concrete, gashes on my arms and face, my fists shaking with rage as I held tight to Damian’s shirt, his dead body laid carefully in front of me. Poe’s thin, bloodless lips pulled into a sneer as the car pulled away. He turned his head; his job here was done.