really like me . I just didn’t see the sense of it.
Sometimes I felt like Edwin was my only friend, and having lost my own brother, I valued him all the more. We spent a great deal of time together, probably, in hindsight, more than was wise.
I never knew when he’d burst in on me, shake me out of my doldrums, shouting, “Devil take the office!” when I asked why he was not at work, and slap a hat on my head and a cloak around my shoulders and drag me off to the dime museum or an afternoon matinée. “Nothing’s better than a penny dreadful brought to life!” he always said. Any sideshow featuring freaks or magicians was sure to attract Edwin. He’d readily volunteer to let the strongman lift him over his head or to step forward and tug the bearded lady’s whiskers, daring to let his eyes drift down to her bosom as he did so, and he’d pay to kiss the fat lady, and he never tired of telling about the day he had shaken the Elephant Man’s hand. The instant any magician asked for a volunteer from the audience Edwin was on his feet with his hands waving.
He was forever trying to perform magic tricks, dreaming of the day when he could abandon the office forever, he hated cotton and bookkeeping so, and take to the stage as “Edwin the Extraordinary.” But he was the most inept magician I ever saw. His tricks always went hilariously wrong.
I remember once when I was hosting a ladies’ luncheon and he attempted to entertain us with a trick involving a handkerchief and the contents of a pepper shaker; poor Edwin made the mistake of standing next to an open window on a windy day and pepper went flying everywhere . We were convulsed with sneezes and our eyes were streaming and stinging, and one poor lady’s sneezing brought about similar eruptions from the other end that mortified her so completely that she would never come to our house again.
Another time Edwin lost the tame white dove he had been practicing with for months and thought it had landed on Mrs. Hammersmith’s hat, but when he went to catch it he discovered it was only a stuffed bird nesting amidst the silk cabbage roses and he had quite ruined her new hat, mangling it with his big, clumsy man’s hands when he snatched the dove off. She sobbed hysterically when Edwin offered her a handkerchief only to have a dozen rainbow-colored ones all sewn together come rushing out of his pocket and proceeded to beat him about the head with her handbag several times, all the while calling him a dunce, a mutton-headed dolt, a nincompoop, and an absolute fiend—I personally thought the last was rather strong. After all it was only a hat, and not a very pretty one at that. Afterward, when I put a piece of steak on the swollen lump on his forehead, he tried to make a joke of it, wondering if the brick she was carrying in her purse was solid gold.
A month rarely passed without him dragging me off to the Anatomy Museum, which I daresay sounds a tad improper, on the select afternoons when ladies were admitted. They boasted over 750 wax models that were authentic replicas of all the human organs and even had displays depicting the birthing process and various surgical procedures to “advance science and learning,” and Edwin insisted we had to see them all. He’d stand before the exhibit about “self-pollution” eating his toffee corn and joke that the placard that described it as “the most pernicious evil practiced by man upon himself” contradicted the sign over the front door that shouted in huge gilt-edged black letters: MAN KNOW THYSELF! and have me laughing so hard I almost burst my stays.
Sometimes we even attended séances together, which were then still quite fashionable. We’d sit in the darkness, part of a circle of joined hands, while the medium went into her trance. Spirit hands rattled tambourines, tilted the table, and wrote messages on sealed slates. Cloaked by darkness, Edwin would sometimes lean over and let his lips graze my neck or cheek,
Sometimes I felt like Edwin was my only friend, and having lost my own brother, I valued him all the more. We spent a great deal of time together, probably, in hindsight, more than was wise.
I never knew when he’d burst in on me, shake me out of my doldrums, shouting, “Devil take the office!” when I asked why he was not at work, and slap a hat on my head and a cloak around my shoulders and drag me off to the dime museum or an afternoon matinée. “Nothing’s better than a penny dreadful brought to life!” he always said. Any sideshow featuring freaks or magicians was sure to attract Edwin. He’d readily volunteer to let the strongman lift him over his head or to step forward and tug the bearded lady’s whiskers, daring to let his eyes drift down to her bosom as he did so, and he’d pay to kiss the fat lady, and he never tired of telling about the day he had shaken the Elephant Man’s hand. The instant any magician asked for a volunteer from the audience Edwin was on his feet with his hands waving.
He was forever trying to perform magic tricks, dreaming of the day when he could abandon the office forever, he hated cotton and bookkeeping so, and take to the stage as “Edwin the Extraordinary.” But he was the most inept magician I ever saw. His tricks always went hilariously wrong.
I remember once when I was hosting a ladies’ luncheon and he attempted to entertain us with a trick involving a handkerchief and the contents of a pepper shaker; poor Edwin made the mistake of standing next to an open window on a windy day and pepper went flying everywhere . We were convulsed with sneezes and our eyes were streaming and stinging, and one poor lady’s sneezing brought about similar eruptions from the other end that mortified her so completely that she would never come to our house again.
Another time Edwin lost the tame white dove he had been practicing with for months and thought it had landed on Mrs. Hammersmith’s hat, but when he went to catch it he discovered it was only a stuffed bird nesting amidst the silk cabbage roses and he had quite ruined her new hat, mangling it with his big, clumsy man’s hands when he snatched the dove off. She sobbed hysterically when Edwin offered her a handkerchief only to have a dozen rainbow-colored ones all sewn together come rushing out of his pocket and proceeded to beat him about the head with her handbag several times, all the while calling him a dunce, a mutton-headed dolt, a nincompoop, and an absolute fiend—I personally thought the last was rather strong. After all it was only a hat, and not a very pretty one at that. Afterward, when I put a piece of steak on the swollen lump on his forehead, he tried to make a joke of it, wondering if the brick she was carrying in her purse was solid gold.
A month rarely passed without him dragging me off to the Anatomy Museum, which I daresay sounds a tad improper, on the select afternoons when ladies were admitted. They boasted over 750 wax models that were authentic replicas of all the human organs and even had displays depicting the birthing process and various surgical procedures to “advance science and learning,” and Edwin insisted we had to see them all. He’d stand before the exhibit about “self-pollution” eating his toffee corn and joke that the placard that described it as “the most pernicious evil practiced by man upon himself” contradicted the sign over the front door that shouted in huge gilt-edged black letters: MAN KNOW THYSELF! and have me laughing so hard I almost burst my stays.
Sometimes we even attended séances together, which were then still quite fashionable. We’d sit in the darkness, part of a circle of joined hands, while the medium went into her trance. Spirit hands rattled tambourines, tilted the table, and wrote messages on sealed slates. Cloaked by darkness, Edwin would sometimes lean over and let his lips graze my neck or cheek,
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