Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 7

“ ‘My splendid fellow,’ Ed continued, ‘I’ll now partake of that fine decanter of spirits that you previously offered.’

“ ‘Certainly,’ I said, relieved that I still had two cans left. As we sat there, Moose, in that eerie candlelight, sipping our beers, he told me about himself. He said that he was writing stuff and trying to sell it without success. Have you ever heard of anything so silly?”

“Nope,” I answered, shaking my head and letting the concrete scrape my bare soles as we swung. “How did he get money to survive?”

“Ahh, well, he let it slip that his uncle gave him money once in a while. He told me, also, that he was mourning the recent death of his thirteen-year-old cousin. Oh, it was all mysterious and scary, and do you know, as he sipped on his beer, he became more and more agitated and started to say bizarre things. I’ve forgotten most of his tirade, but I remember ranting words such as ‘murder,’ ‘death,’ ‘evil eyes,’ ‘buried people,’ and all kinds of unsavory stuff. I tried to settle him down but he only got worse, and I wished that I had not given him that beer. It became obvious that the slightest amount of alcohol made him crazy and uncontrollable.

“But do you know, Moose, he was an excellent storyteller, for after a short nap to recover, he told me to lean back in my chair, relax, and let his tale captivate me. Then he told me a story that lasted about an hour. I was completely under his spell. I don’t remember much of it now, but it had to do with a poor woman who was buried alive and had to escape from the grave to get her revenge.”

“Yuck! That’s awful.”

“Awful, sure, but the way he told it was fascinating—spellbinding. And do you know that the telling of that story drained all the energy out of Ed. His head slumped down on the table; he became dead to the world. I, too, was tired. I’d had a long day, Moose, so I fell asleep on an old blanket that I found lying in a heap on the floor. I was awakened twice during the night, once when Ed yelled out in his sleep, ‘Annabell! … Annabell!’ and again when he screamed, ‘Madman! … madman!’

“When I awoke at dawn, Ed was in the same position and snoring loudly. I shook him but he didn’t budge, so I wrote him a note saying, ‘Thanks for the hospitality, Ed. Take care of yourself. Your friend, Ernie.’ Then I descended those cramped stairs with difficulty and stretched widely in the early morning sun of Baltimore. As I ventured down the narrow street that bright morning, I stuck my fingers in my pockets to protect them from the morning chill. In my right pocket was a piece of paper. ‘What in the world is this,’ I wondered. Guess what it was, Moose?”

 “Beats me.”

“It was a note from Ed. During the night he must have awakened, written the note, and slipped it into my pocket.”

“What did it say, Unk? Did he want you to come back to visit him or what?”

“Now, now … hold your horses; you can read it yourself while I take a walk.” Uncle Ernest then gave me the paper, which he had folded up in his wallet. It was dirty and crumpled but easily readable in bold, erect handwriting. So I wouldn’t forget it, I copied it down and will let you read it now. This is what Ed wrote to Uncle Ernest, Nina.

To my fair fellow, Ernie:

I extend to you my most sincere appreciation

for the splendid evening we have spent together.

Your companionship and conviviality brightened

what would have been just another of the dreary

midnights of insufferable solitude.

Here is a poem for you that has never been

published and never will be. You are the only

human who has ever set eyes upon it. I hope

You like it, Ernie, my friend.

A most heartfelt farewell,

Ed

The Hound

(for my friend, Ernie)

Long into the night I lie and listen

To the hollow howl of the black dog.

His moans smother my music

And his wail

Rumbles, rumbles over my song.

Each night his baying loudens

And soon I will see him slink into view.

Eyes glinting in the moonlight,

And hackles raised in recognition,

He will skulk towards me

On sunken haunches.

His heavy head will froth its juices,

 And closing in, his breath

Will implant the stench.

One night he will pounce

And bury fangs into my throat,

Spattering the life,

Gnawing the bone.

Isn’t this a strange, somber gift, Nina? Maybe someday, when you are a lot older and in college, you can explain it to old Pop Pop. For now, though, let’s return to those olden days of Uncle Ernest. In a trance from reading this amazing note, I didn’t hear Uncle Ernest return. The creaking swing brought me back to reality, though, and after a hearty pull on his glass, he continued his story.

[To be continued Tuesday, 3/20/2012]