Dearest Friend,
I write to you, once again, from the cold comfort of my beloved, concealed laboratory beneath the house. I say concealed, and not simply confidential, because the laboratory is both concealed (a secret from my employer) and hidden from the eye behind a stone wall and a clever secret door.
You will find me peculiar, William, but the wall is a new installment, born of my mind and assembled of my hand. I offered Master White my service as a kindness to his family, to divide the room in two. "A wine collection such as yours merits a cellar just as impressive in which to display them," I implored Master White. Don't laugh, William, as I always know when you laugh. I believe the man was sincerely flattered, despite having absolutely no friends or associates to impress with such a display. I will say, and forgive me my self-congratulations, 'twas no simple feat to win over the opinion of my employer, who is by all accounts quite practical.
'Twas a victory for all parties, then: I, with my concealed laboratory and he, with a charming, albeit useless, display at the end of the staircase. We are both quite satisfied with the arrangement, though my employer need not know the half of it.
Reading your letters, Will, conducts warmth to my heart, even in the cold cave of this cellar. I know you must tire of my constant goings-on about my laboratory, and you of all people know that what it means to my soul, but it is, after all, a cellar—I have spent enough time underground to feel the cold, dark shadows seeping beneath my skin, taking up residence in my bones. Your words, scratched in ink from your hand, warm my spirit and expel the shadows—at least for a short while.
I cherish the words you sent me last, and I thank you for your considerable care and utmost detail. I feel almost like I was there with you, standing over your shoulder as you filled breakers at the university facility, though not quite.
You must know how impressed I am to have such an accomplished friend. I'm quite absorbed in the account of your latest research, every word so carefully chosen, even in your earliest drafts, so brilliantly compelling. Your mind has always worked in such contrast to mine, William, which is why I'm constantly in awe of your work (and also why I so strongly find us ideal partners—will we ever work together again?). Where my mind naturally seeks solutions to troubles of the future, yours endeavors to improve pressing matters of today.
Your thesis is most intriguing, William, one I know will bring you great prominence should you succeed in proving it (which I have no doubt you will, given the time and resources you require). Promise me, William, you won't forget me when you go down in history as the man who fed the world?
Following your theory, you could not only prevent the process of rot in meat, produce, dairy, etc., but reverse its effects... The implications of doing so are practically cosmic—not simply life-preserving, but humanity-preserving (should mankind ever need saving). Perhaps our minds aren't so different after all.
William, my letter runs tediously long and my candle burns dangerously low. I will conclude in brief: Write me back in the same manner as the last, with details of your brilliant work and your certainly salacious life. When you do, perhaps I'll be obliged to return the favor.
Your most humble servant,
Edward Poole
24 Thornewood Dr.
April 16th 1789
Malcolm Allan sat in his brother's small hospital room. The room was dark—it was nearly 10 o'clock at night— lit only by a small orb of lamplight beside Owen's bed. Malcolm had just finished reading aloud another letter from the mysterious Edward Poole. Despite his drooping eyelids, Owen had insisted that they finish the letter before Malcolm made his way back home for the night. Staying late was ideal for Malcolm, who was avoiding a term paper for his psychology class. Final exams for looming over Malcolm like a dark cloud, but he never mentioned it to Owen, who was forced to defer his enrollment after the diagnosis. Edward Poole was proving to be a perfect distraction to both brothers.
"So don't get me wrong here," Owen prefaced with a sleepy smile on his face, "But are these dudes in love?"
"I don't know," Malcolm said, amused by his brother's theory. "I think maybe people just talked like that back then."
Owen shook his head, "I don't know, man. I think our friend Eddie had it bad."
They laughed together until Owen had to catch his breath.
"Need some water?" Malcolm said, standing in alarm as his brother's heavy breathing turned into a coughing fit.
"I'm fine, sit down," Owen said between coughs, waving his brother back down to his chair with one hand.
Malcolm nodded and sat down, disappointed in himself for letting his concern show. He knew how his brother hated that, especially in him. He knew Owen felt a lot of guilt about his own illness, for making the people he loved worry. Malcolm tried to keep their conversations light.
"So while you're conjuring up an 18th century gay romance," Malcolm said, lightening the mood, "I'm more interested in this research William Allan was working on."
Relaxed again, Owen said, "Do you think he, like, invented preservatives or something?"
Malcolm considered the question, "I feel like that's something Uncle Jack would've told us about a few hundred times already."
"Good point," Owen said.
"Plus," Malcolm said, re-reading the letter, "It sounds like he was working on something more intense than just preservatives. It sounds like he was trying to stop the rotting process from happening at all, not just slow it down. Poole says here, he thought he could even reverse the effects of rotting..."
Malcolm looked up at his brother and found him staring intently at his iPhone, face lit up by the screen.
"Looks like a Nicolas Appert invented food preservatives in 1806," Owen said as he scrolled through Wikipedia. "Sucks for William, I guess. Doesn't look like he accomplished anything noteworthy."
"Hmmm," Malcolm said, mildly disappointed in his ancestor. "Poole makes him sound like he's some kind of genius."
"That's what I'm telling you," Owen said, laughing. "Poole's got it bad."
Malcolm laughed too, but he was starting to see Owen's point. He stood from the stiff chair and reached for his backpack.
"Hey before you head home," Owen said, suddenly alert. "Don't tell mom and dad yet, because I don't want to get their hopes up or anything... But the doctors are saying that the chemo's working..."
"That's great news—!" Malcolm said, tossing his heavy backpack back on the floor. His arms suddenly felt too weak to carry it.
"Like I said, I don't want to get anyone's hopes up," Owen interjected, his voice level. It was the same calm, yet serious voice Owen used to use whenever Malcolm would throw a tantrum when they were kids. Though he was just two year older, Malcolm looked up to his brother like a wise, all-knowing, infinite being. "But there's a pretty good chance I could be coming home in a few weeks."
Malcolm stood speechless for a moment, hopes rising against his older brother's wishes, until Owen's cough brought him back down to reality.
"That's great news," Malcolm said again in a more even tone.
As Malcolm made the trek home to his dorm along the river, his mind wandered from Owen's cancer, to Edward Poole's strange, secret lab, and back to Owen's cancer again. The possibility of recovery seemed higher than ever, but the good news only made his fear of losing him that much stronger. He could see why Owen had been so careful sharing the news—Higher hopes meant a deadlier fall.
The sun had long set over the old brick buildings iconic to Forest Park University, and he strolled through a heavy darkness. From the path he walked, Malcolm could see all the major campus landmarks to his right—Stadium lights shined down on some late-night practice in the distance, the classic collegiate Gothic library stood tall and stoic, the window-covered modern chemistry facility shined like oil in the darkness—while the river flowed lazily to his left. The campus was home, had been for nearly two years, but as Malcolm stood on its outskirts, taking in the scenic skyline, he wondered if he would ever belong there. Even at the heart of campus, in his dorm, at the library, even front and center in a lecture hall, Malcolm knew he had only ever seen Forest Park University from a distance.
He thought about Edward Poole and his mysterious fall-from-grace, the incident that all but ended his career. After reading so many of his letters, Malcolm felt like he knew the dark, lonely man at 24 Thornewood Road. Despite the centuries between them, Malcolm felt they were more alike than not—two lonely men, trying to get by in a home that wasn't their own.
When he laid in bed that night, Malcolm imagined Edward Poole, working in his makeshift lab under the little house, pursuing a passion that rejected him. In that moment, final exams and term papers didn't feel so impossible after all.