Forevermore Ch. 01

The second place was a duplex and she said no because the next door neighbors had argued the whole time Belinda had been inside. Like she needed to hear someone else's imploding relationship. She still wasn't over her own.

"I've got something else but it's probably not what you want," the girl told her with a careful tuck of her blonde hair behind her ear. "It's older."

They drove to Fell's Point and Belinda sighed as the feel of the place settled in around her. Ah, yes, this she could work with. It wasn't some condo where the paint had barely dried. For that matter, it wasn't some white on white on douchebag cookie cutter mansion in Santa Monica either. It was real.

The sidewalk was cobblestone. The rows of brick buildings were wedged together like slightly crooked, slightly discolored teeth. Smoker's teeth. A brown sign hung from a brass arm that announced they were in the Historic District and Belinda sighed with contentment.

The leasing agent talked as they navigated the uneven walk. "There are seafood restaurants all over, of course," the girl said as she clicked busily on her phone. "A lot of antique stores, too." They stopped in front of a reddish brown brick house. It was plain but old and solid looking. There was nothing fancy, nothing frou frou. The windows were trimmed in white, the door was white, no flower boxes, no awning, bare. Simple.

The agent opened the padlock with a code and she waved Belinda inside. "It's two bedrooms, a bath and a half. There's no dishwasher," she sounded like that was a travesty.

Belinda couldn't describe the feeling. She tingled from head to toe. Even her hair seemed electric somehow, even though that didn't make any sense. The air was cool, a little damp, a little musty, but there was an undercurrent here that coursed with something that Belinda could feel in her bones. This house had feelings.

"You know, they say that Edgar Allan Poe's last stop was here," the girl added as she continued to text.

"His last stop?" Belinda felt a prickle. She had been the girl who had yelped out loud in the back cubicle at the library while she read The Fall of the House of Usher.

"You know, the last place he stopped before he died."

Sold.

"It was at the bar, two doors down. Called "The Horse You Came In On"."

A bar, two doors down? It even had a sarcastic name. Sold twice.

"This is the only place I can show you where smoking is allowed," she made a face at Belinda, as if to shame her into giving up such a filthy habit.

Sold American.

Belinda dug in her old, black Chanel backpack for her half smoked pack of Marlboro Lights. She shoved one in her mouth, lit it, and without removing the cigarette, asked the blonde girl, "Where do I sign?"

***

It had only taken five days to have a whole new life delivered to her. Finally, it was all in place and she felt she could stop. Belinda collapsed onto her new emerald green velvet sofa with the new patchwork blanket on the back. The blanket looked old and it felt cozy and worn even though it was brand new. She smiled to herself. You done good kid, she nodded and flipped her old Keds off with her toes and hugged her legs. She felt like she had done more than just made a new place to stay. This was a home, or at least it had home potential. More importantly, it was her first home since her last home had crumbled beneath her feet. Kind of like the House of Usher.

The living room looked great. The couch was really the focal point. Belinda had wanted it instantly and it burned like a fever the minute she saw it. Steven had wanted all white everything. The house had been white, the walls had been white, the upholstery had been white. Everything had been the color of milk and Belinda was lactose intolerant. The green couch and the gray and green chairs and the gold and blue side tables were artsy and kitschy and soulful and most importantly, not white.

The kitchen was easy. Belinda didn't cook. In the California house, she'd had to ask the cleaning lady where cups and glasses were kept whenever she dared go into the kitchen. This kitchen was easy, less intimidating. She already had a box of graham crackers and a container of butter in there. It was a snack that, especially when writing, could serve as breakfast, lunch and dinner.

She also had discovered, much to her delight, that the liquor store delivered and the delivery boy was a strapping, young Viking. He was kind of boy that women her age were supposed to lust after while being married to the nice, respectable, good on paper husband. She wasn't quite there yet. But she'd stocked up on bourbon and felt as if she'd appeased the nesting instinct.

The bedroom was cozy. The nights had already gotten a little chilly and Belinda could hardly wait to sleep burrowed down in the pillowy down comforter with all the windows open. She slept the best like that, with freezing, cold air and a cozy bed. She'd even bought herself some flannel, old man pajamas. She might as well enjoy sleeping alone.

Anything was better than sleeping on the twin sized, plastic mattress at rehab. She had shared a room with five other women. Belinda had been terrified the first week, scared to close her eyes. One girl had still been coming down off something. One had just been bat shit crazy and had shouted random things in the dark. One had been a cutter and Belinda had wondered if they wouldn't all wake up to a puddle of her blood. Another had been bulimic and if there was anything that made Belinda want to throw up, it was listening to someone else do it.

Sleeping at rehab had been the cure for bemoaning sleeping alone. Now Belinda craved the whole queen sized mattress, all to herself, spread eagle.

The only room that wasn't quite right was the second bedroom that Belinda had designated the office. Yeah, the desk was good. It was a nice piece, mid-century modern. Belinda felt like she should perch her loafers on it and lean back in her sleek, black leather Herman Miller chair. She would have her hands clasped behind her head of course. It would be a great photo for a book jacket; for a Belinda book, not a Fantasia book. Fantasia dressed like an upper class hooker and she'd never put her feet on the desk. She was too damn girly.

The real problem with the office was that sooner or later, she was going to have to go in there and write. Her and Fantasia, the last go round before it was splitsville forever. It felt like a boxing match and Belinda hadn't been training.

She sat scrunched up in a ball on her new sofa and played with her hair and closed her eyes. There it was again, the electricity that seemed to pulsate throughout the house. It was something invisible. It didn't need to be seen or have a form to be incredibly real though, Belinda thought. It was the quiet heartbeat under everything.

Okay, good juju, she appealed to the vibration, help me come up with an idea. Just a basic outline, that was all she needed. She'd be golden with a few bullet points really. What if she did another secret prince story? Belinda began to talk out loud since there wasn't a good reason not to. A single woman who meets a mysterious stranger and he seems poor. Then she falls in love with him, only to discover he's really a prince.

Belinda felt the acid churn in her stomach. Her idea was literally making her sick. Not only was it a shitty idea, it was a shitty, overdone idea. Fuck, when she started to plagiarize Fantasia, then it was really time to slit her wrists.

Or break out the bourbon.

No, she needed to stick with it. Okay. No secret royalty story. How about a secret baby? Nothing was better than instant family. The woman would just inherit the baby from a sister or a cousin, Belinda explained out loud once again, so she could still be a virgin. Nothing sold like virgins, Belinda said with a sardonic smirk. The only problem was it was a one trick pony. You could only pop their cherry once so the build up had to be excruciating.

She sighed and felt her shoulders sag in defeat. She'd done the same storyline at least twice already.

What about good girl meets mafia prince? Did it. What about sexy nurse meets stunt driver? Did it. What about famous actress falls in love with her chauffeur? Did it, made a movie about it and then an even worse, follow up, straight to Netflix movie about the actress, the chauffeur and the subsequent baby.

Belinda groaned, it was hopeless. Maybe her fucking brain was used up. Maybe she had killed too many brain cells. Maybe she didn't have one more goddamn idea that was worth having.

An hour later and two and a half hefty glasses of bourbon later, Belinda felt blurry around the edges. There were ideas in there. Sure there were, she convinced her ghostly white reflection in the bathroom mirror. They were all better ideas than Fantasia Fox bullshit too. They just needed a little coaxing.

A little bourbon.

A little valium.

Maybe she should fuck the liquor store delivery boy. That might get the old juices flowing, she thought before she spit a wad of toothpaste into the sink. Because the juices sure hadn't been flowing. Belinda thought with the glaze of tears right there, her sight all liquid with the truth of it. Not having any privacy in rehab hadn't stopped her from masturbating. She hadn't even thought about it. Really, even the Viking boy with his pants down low and his abs on abs on abs had done nothing for her.

Belinda wondered if her brain and her pussy dried up all at the same time?

She snuggled under the down comforter and another furry blanket. Normally she didn't sleep naked but this was marvelous. The feel of the crisp, eight hundred count sheets danced along her flesh. The sheets caressed her gently from head to toe and it was the sexiest thing that she'd felt in longer than she could remember. Not really drunk, just buzzed and achy, Belinda thought that things would look brighter in the morning.

Just before she passed into sleep, she heard it. There was the surge of electricity that crackled. It was almost imperceptible but the pulses on her skin were just on the edge of her imagination. So was the whisper. Maybe not a whisper, maybe just a thought, a pulse that could have been her imagination.

"Oh my love," it spoke. It was a breath or maybe just another vibration. Whatever it was, the energy hung there, over her body, for just a moment before Belinda surrendered to sleep.

***

The next day Belinda decided, as she poured Visine into both bloodshot eyes, that she was having flashbacks. Yeah, this was motherfucking PTSD or some such shit, she reasoned with herself as she yanked her unruly hair into a ponytail. All that time spent with psychos had made her a little crazy, that was all. She was highly suggestible. She was almost an empath, Belinda reasoned as she walked herself to the office. Well, an empath in that she could describe feelings really well, not as in liking people. She almost shuddered at that.

No, she continued, she'd picked writing as a profession partly because she enjoyed being alone. Belinda tapped her Surface Pro and watched the screen as it came to life. Today was her lucky day, she thought as she twisted her mouth to one side. She was ready for inspiration. She had a full pack of Marlboro lights and a huge cup of delicious coffee. It was almost bitter and black like her soul coffee. Belinda thought of it as battery acid that would rush through her circuitry. Nothing like coffee and cigarettes for breakfast to get her brain firing on all eight cylinders.

For an hour she stared at a sentence; the longest hour of her life. She'd spent hours at her divorce attorney's office that went by faster and had more laughs to boot.

Research, that's what she needed to do. Belinda went online and her fingers paused over the keyboard at the Google window. It seemed so simple, type your question right here and a world of information awaits.

Could she really be so fucking pathetic? Belinda contemplated as she took a drag. Yes, yes she was as she typed "ideas for romance novel" and hit enter.

The first result that returned was Fantasia Fox's website and Belinda felt her eyes bulge in her head. Fuck, she was furious. All she wanted was some time away from that saccharine, smarmy whore. Her fucking doppelgänger had taken Belinda's name and now she'd taken her ideas as well. Queen of the romance novel, Belinda drummed her fingers on the screen and then decided in the lowest, lower than a snake's belly move, to click.

There she was, at least a version of her. Fantasia Fox was blonde. It had been Belinda's idea in the beginning to give her alter ego a far sexier image than Belinda's. At best, Belinda was she was passable. She was probably cute and maybe when she was dressed up, pretty. Fantasia was a fox though. Blonde and buxom and blue eyed, she was just the right amount of innocent and slutty.

Belinda was neither.

Fantasia not only promoted the full lineup of books but her new channel of audiobooks. Belinda sneered, no one told her shit anymore. Fantasia also gave relationship advice and Belinda curled her upper lip in an absolute snarl. Part of her wanted to post a bitchy comment about how Fantasia's last relationship ended in divorce and a trip to rehab.

And a small fire. Belinda almost forgot about that.

Part of her, the sad part that needed the wisecracks and the booze; the part that was held together with bits and pieces of wedding photos and miscarriages and an empty nursery, that part wanted to read what Fantasia had to say. Maybe learn something.

Fuck, it was almost eleven o'clock and now even the one sentence just sounded stupid. Belinda backspaced it to die a quick death, another stupid idea aborted at conception. The only good thing about it being eleven o'clock and having accomplished nothing was that she had the rest of the afternoon to drink.

It was time to meet her neighbors, Belinda thought with a grin as she rose to her feet. The Horse You Came In On had just opened its doors. Belinda had caught sight of the morning regulars as she'd passed once or twice. They looked to be a bunch of old stragglers. They were old men with their pants pulled up high. They shuffled in and took their regular seats. Belinda would fit right in.

Belinda put on her old black Chucks and grabbed her wallet. She took a glance at the mirror that she'd hung in the entry the day before. Yeah, just about right, Belinda thought. She was the nerdy girl all grown up. The only thing missing was the big, black glasses that she used to constantly push up her nose. Eye surgery had fixed that but the glimmer of the socially awkward, black haired girl in the back cubicle was still there.

The bar was dark, which made it perfect for day drinking. Even with the front door propped open, the sunlight only made it into the first two feet from the front door. The rest of the space was dimly lit. It was all cobwebs and dark, worn wood floors. There was a neat row of stools on one side of a beautiful oak bar and an equally neat row of Jack Daniels bottles lined up on the other side. If they had ashtrays, it would be Belinda's favorite place in the world.

"Help you?" the man behind the bar asked with an easy smile.

"A Jack and Coke, easy on the Coke and no ice," Belinda ordered as she took a seat at the end. It was the stool furthest away from the old timer that had gotten there first. "Please," she remembered to add. She needed to make friends, since she could already tell that she was going to be a regular.

The Coke wet her whistle and the Jack went down smooth. She hardly felt the burn at all. Wasn't that one of the signs? All the truly great alcoholics had some point where the booze no longer stung, all pleasure, no pain.

Speaking of alcoholics, she couldn't help but see the sign that hung from a rafter. It moved in a breeze that she didn't feel, but it called her attention. It read "Poe's Last Stop". Belinda asked the bartender, "So did Edgar Allan Poe really die here?"

"Oh shit, not this nonsense again," the old man at the opposite end of the bar erupted with a slap on the wood.

"Hey Nick, shut up, okay? She's new," the bartender told him with a grin. To Belinda he cocked his head and asked, "you're not from here, are you?"

Belinda shook her head and gulped her drink.

"But you look familiar, right? I've seen you before," the bartender pointed at her. The wheels had begun to churn as he dipped back into the recent past and scoured the catalogue of faces.

"I just moved in two houses down," she put her hand out in an uncharacteristically friendly gesture. "I'm Belinda."

"Freddy," the bartender said and shook her hand. "And that's Nick."

"Okay, Freddy, if you can make me another one of these, I'll get Nick's next drink too," Belinda laid her Amex card on the bar. "Tell me the story."

Another patron from a table shouted out, "Tell her about the ghost out back."

Another patron blurted, "It's all some bullshit the owners made up. Because otherwise, nobody but us would drink here."

Freddy scowled at that guy and shook his head. "Bill, Dink, you want to shut up? I'm talking to my new, pretty friend, Belinda."

The cat calls came and Freddy winked at her while refreshing her drink. "Okay, so back in 1849, The Horse was one of Mr. Poe's favorite bars. See, by then, he was in a pretty bad way. His wife had died and he was totally broke."

Nick scowled into his second drink. "He had tuberculosis. It was rampant back then. It's nothing mysterious."

"Then what about when the register opened by itself that one night?" Bill called out. "Oh, and the lights flicker sometimes for no reason, too."

"Yeah and when you're here at closing time, I tell you what," interrupted Dink. The poor guy, with the worst name ever, had large eyes, "it's freezing cold in here. Like from spirits."

"It's because it's night out, you dumb truck," Nick bellowed.

It really was Belinda's favorite place on earth.

"Guys, come on, shut up," Freddy put his hands out. "I'm trying to answer the lady's question." He shook his head like he was just about fed up with the lot. Belinda could tell it was all in a day's work for Freddy and that they were really great friends. "So as I was saying, Mr. Poe was in a bad way. Sick and drank too much, you know, all of that. So he stopped in here on October 3rd, and had one last drink."

"But he didn't die here?" Belinda asked. She pushed her empty glass toward Freddy. Might as well make an afternoon of it.

"No, they took him to the hospital," Nick muttered.

"They just said that," Bill interjected. "He died right out here in the street. He was attacked and left for dead."

Freddy leaned in and passed Belinda her third Jack and Coke. "They don't really know what happened, Belinda. It seems that Mr. Poe's death was just as mysterious as one of his stories."

Belinda stared into her drink as the old timers continued their debate. She could still feel the rhythm of the ocean in Annabel Lee. She could still feel the quiver of the preternatural heart from The Tell Tale Heart. To write like that, to achieve immortality with those words that still haunted through eons of time, that had been his gift and his curse.

The haunting of a bar was just one last little indignity to genius. Like Edgar Allan Poe had nowhere better to hang out than with these old drunks.

Freddy bent down to catch her eye, "Hey, are you okay? You've kind of pounded them down there. You're not going to be sick are you?" He seemed legitimately concerned.

Belinda tapped her credit card. "Fit as a fiddle, young man." Her words were a little thick and the only time she said things like fit as a fiddle was when she was getting pissed. "Keep them coming."

"You drink 'em, I'll pour 'em," Freddy assured her.

It was definitely Belinda's favorite place.