The Innswich Horror (11 page)

She shook her head. “No, Foster. Mid-week is
always slow—like they say, Friday is Fish Day. There’ll be a rush
later, when the watermen come back from the docks. But I’m afraid I
haven’t seen the man you’re describing.”

“I was supposed to meet him,” I began, but
then shrugged it off. “No matter. He’s either running late, or
maybe he secured himself a position. He’s an accountant.”

“Well, they might need accountants in the
wholesalers,” she offered.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” It was obvious.
He’d probably located his friend Mr. Poynter and managed to get a
job. I truly wished the best for him.

Following some more small
talk, I got about my order, which Mary had recommended: chowder,
fried Ipswich clams, and striped bass stuffed with rock crab. I’d
always delighted in such fare, and felt bad that Lovecraft himself,
a New Englander, too, could never share in these delights due to a
repugnance for shellfish. My eyes, however, struggled to keep
averted from Mary as she went about her table-waiting.
She’s just so… beautiful,
I kept thinking. Eventually the other table left, then a man
from the back exited the restaurant as well, seeming to head down
the block. Next thing I knew Mary was sitting across from me, with
two Cocamalts.

“I love your company, Mary, but might not
your employer—”

“Don’t worry about Mr. Wraxall,” she
excused, and sipped her drink. “Every night at seven he goes to the
bar—Karswell’s—for at least three boxcars. So I can take a break,
too, while your food’s cooking.”

“How delightful,” I all but exclaimed.

Even in her nonchalance, her eyes cast a
glitter akin to diamond chips, and I could see the richness of her
dark blond hair now that it had been freed from the hairnet she
wore in the general store. When I caught myself watching her lips
surround the drink-straw, I almost cringed at the sudden eroticism
of it.

“So, how was your gallivanting?” she
asked.

“Splendid, Mary. I’m sure I toured most of
the town proper—”

“The docks?” she cut in.

“Oh, yes, the docks too.”

“Don’t be put off if the watermen weren’t
overly friendly,” she informed.

“Actually, my friend Mr. Garret warned me of
it, but in truth I scarcely noticed any such workmen.”

“It’s only because they’re… what’s the
word?” A fingertip went to her mouth. “Possessive.”

This seemed curious. “Possessive? Whatever
do you mean?”

“They don’t like strangers, Foster,” she
went on. “Strangers shouldn’t be in our harbor, they should stay in
their own. We don’t send our boats to Rockport or Gloucester. Why
should they be allowed to send theirs here?”

Now it made sense; this
was the territorialism of which the man Onderdonk spoke of so
bitterly. A “stranger” from another port town could easily take
note of where the Innswich fishing boats were casting their nets,
as well as their time tables. “It seems a fair rule of thumb,” I
said, “and I’m happy that the town’s fishing industry is doing so
well.” I reflected on a pause. “I only hope that
you’re
doing well, too,
Mary.”

“Oh, me? I’m fine. I’m making more right off
the bat with the new minimum wage, and since I turned twenty-five,
I’ve been receiving a monthly dividend from the town
collective.”

“The town… collective?” I chuckled
half-heartedly. “It sounds a bit socialist.”

“No, it’s just a profit-sharing plan for
residents who work and contribute to the local economy,” she
explained. “Most of it comes from the fishing. I’ve been getting it
three years now, and each year it goes up a little.” She lowered
her voice. “I’m ashamed to say, but we don’t even have any real
furniture at our house, but this year, thanks to the collective,
I’ll be able to buy some.”

The remark sunk my heart; I recalled from my
brief visit to her house the makeshift oddments that Mary’s poverty
forced her to use as furniture. “You’re a determined woman, Mary,
and with all those children? Plus your brother and stepfather to
care for? Your resilience is quite remarkable. I must confess,
though, I actually met your son Walter today. What a fine lad.”

This admission seemed to hold her in check.
“You’ve… been to my house?”

I had to choose my phrases carefully. “Not
really. I was simply walking by, returning from the barbeque stand
up the road.”

Her words faltered. “And… you met…
Walter?”

“Indeed, I did. What an industrious young
man. He was practicing—quite deftly—his archery skills. I’d only a
moment to speak with him, though.”

“But you didn’t… see my… stepfather?”

“Oh, no, no. I was just passing by,” I
reiterated. “I like Walter very much, but, I’ll tell you, I didn’t
see hide’nor hair of your other children. You’ve a total of eight,
right?”

“Yes, but they’re younger. They were
probably napping.”

“No doubt, on such a hot
day.” The temptation dragged at me: to simply write her a cheque
for $5000 and give it to her, for a
new
house, with
real
furniture, to ease her
squalor.

But I feared how that might be taken at this
point…

“And I hope you’re not terribly disappointed
with me, Mary, but circumstance forced me to break my promise of
earlier,” I went on. “I did pursue an interview with this Mr. Cyrus
Zalen earlier today—”

“Oh, Foster, you didn’t!” she exclaimed.

I raised a reassuring finger. “It was of
little consequence, really. You see, I simply couldn’t deprive your
brother of his photograph with H.P. Lovecraft; it didn’t seem
right. And as good fortune would have it, Zalen is still in
possession of the negative, and I’ve arranged to purchase a copy
from him tomorrow. But you were quite right about one thing,” I
said with a chuckle. “He’s one of a shady lot indeed.”

Mary’s sudden downcast expression instantly
made me regret volunteering this information. But I plainly didn’t
like the idea of keeping it from her.

“He’s a bad man, Foster,” she implored. “And
it’s a filthy area he lives in. He’s a drug addict and a con
man.”

“I’ve no doubt, now that I’ve met him.”

“And he preys on
people—on
women,
Foster. Poor women.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

Now she gulped. “And I’m sure… he told you
about me.”

Here I had no choice but to lie, to spare
her feelings. “Why do you say that? He had nothing at all to say of
you.”

She reached across and
touched my hand again. “Foster, I have to be honest with
you—because I
like
you so much—”

The sudden comment rocked me…

“—but a long time ago I was one of the women
he preyed upon,” she finished and then looked right at me.

There was no hesitation in
my response, nor with my smile. “Mary, there are times when
we
all
take an
erroneous path in life, and when we do unethical deeds out of
desperation, we’re only being human. These are not grievous sins,
and what you must believe is that God forgives all.”

Her eyes were a blink away from tearing up.
“Does He really?”

“Yes,” I assured her, and now it was my hand
that took hers. “The entails of motherhood are burdensome indeed.
The past is behind you now, and any of your past misgivings are
behind you as well. The same goes for all of us, Mary. The same
goes for me. You’re doing the right thing now, and you have a
wonderful future that awaits you.”

She was choking up, squeezing my hand. “I’ll
just have out with it then, because I can’t lie to you,” and then
she croaked, “before the town collective admitted me, there were
times, in the past, when I’d had to resort to acts of
prostitution.”

“But that doesn’t
matter
,” I replied,
unfazed—for this I already knew. “You’re a moral, honest, and very
hardworking woman now.
That’s
all that matters, Mary.”

She looked at me so strangely then. “I can
tell by your eyes—it really doesn’t bother you, does it—I mean,
what I was in the past.”

“It bothers me not in the least,” I told her
with all my heart. “I’m only interested in what you are now: a
wonderful, beautiful person.”

She hitched on a few sobs as a bell rang,
and someone yelled “Order up!”

She wiped her eyes,
smiling. “Foster, the first time in years I’ve felt good about
myself is right
now
—thanks to you.”

“You have every reason to
feel good about yourself, and I hope you
always
do.”

“I better get your dinner before I start on
a full-blown bawling spell,” and then she was up and rushing into
the back.

I sat, now, in a platonic ecstasy. This
lovely woman seemed to be genuinely fond of me, something rare in
my life of indulgent seclusion. What made me happiest was knowing
that my words and earnestness had helped give her a more positive
conception of herself.

When my dinner was brought, it was an
aproned cook and not Mary who’d brought it. “Sorry, sir, but your
waitress is indisposed for a moment. All tearing up about
something.”

“Allergies, I’m sure,” I said. “And thus far
she’s done a marvelous job in attending to me.”

“Enjoy your dinner, sir.”

“I’m certain I will, thank you.”

As I dined on this sumptuous feast, I noted
varnished plaques mounted on the walls—they were name-planks for
old ships. HETTY, one read, and the others: SUMATRY QUEEN and
COLUMBY. I couldn’t be sure why—and perhaps it was the diversion of
the ambrosial meal, but… did those names ring a bell.

The chowder proved superior to the standard
Providence recipe, and the striped bass may have been the best I’d
ever sampled. Toward the meal’s end, I felt like the most sinful of
gluttons, especially in times when food was scarce for so many.

Mary returned—freshened up now, and
recomposed—and after she cleared the table, she sat down again
opposite me. I couldn’t have complimented the meal more. But her
look told me something still troubled her.

“What you said earlier,
Foster,” she began, “about Cyrus Zalen? You said you’re seeing
him
again?
”

“Yes, tomorrow at four.” I knew she wasn’t
comfortable about me being in this cad’s proximity, so I meant to
assure her. “It’s purely to purchase a copy of the Lovecraft photo,
so that your brother won’t be deprived of his. Zalen needed some
time to process the negative. But after that, I give you my
guarantee, it will be the last time I ever cross paths with the
man.”

“That’s good, Foster. He has a bad way about
him—he’s a conniver.”

And also the father of one
of your children,
the darker thought
flashed in my head.
But he’ll never
connive you anymore, Mary. I’ll see to it.
“A conniver and then some,” I went on, in a more
light-hearted voice. “I caught the man actually stalking me twice
today, once before I met him and once after.”

“Stalking you?”

“Slinking about from the woods, tailing me.
I’m sure robbery was what he was considering. I’d walked up to the
Onderdonk’s stand for a sandwich, and it was on my way back that
Zalen began to follow me more overtly. I went in the woods after
him, to show him I wasn’t afraid of his kind.”

“Foster, you shouldn’t have!”

“The man knows I have some means, so I guess
he figured robbing me might yield more profit than my purchase of
the Lovecraft photo. But I made it quite plain to him that I was
well-able to defend myself. He’ll not be doing that again, I’m
sure. But this unpleasant incident occurred not too far from where
young Walter was engaged in his archery session—that’s how I came
to meet him. Zalen was long gone by then.” Naturally I neglected to
add that it was Zalen who revealed the rough location of Mary’s
ramshackle house.

“The man’s like a blight,” she bemoaned.
“It’s rare that I see much of him but when I do… all it does… it
reminds me—”

I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “You
must disregard any negative memories that are triggered by Zalen.
He counts for nothing. Revel, instead, in the promise of your
future. I assure you, it will be a bright one.”

She looked sullenly at me. “Oh, how I wish
that were true, Foster.”

My only response was a smile, for I’d
decided to say no more. It wasn’t necessary because at that moment,
I already knew what I was going to do…

After a bit more small talk, I rose and
prepared to excuse myself. “Well, by now it’s certain that Mr.
Garret won’t be making an appearance, and I’m a bit fatigued from a
day of travel. But please know, Mary, that spending this little bit
of time with you was the highlight of my day. You’re a lovely
person.”

She blushed and blinked another tear away.
Then she glanced about to see that no one was looking, and kissed
me quickly on the lips. I shivered in a sweet shock.

Her lips came right to my ear. “Please come
and see me at the store tomorrow. I’m off at twelve.”

“I’ll be there. We’ll have a fabulous lunch
somewhere.”

Then she hugged me in something like
desperation. “Please, don’t forget.”

I chuckled. “Mary. No force on earth could
make me forget.”

Another quick kiss and she pulled away, then
picked up the fifty-dollar bill I’d left on the table. “I’ll be
right back with your change.” When she hustled away into the back,
I quietly left the restaurant.

The sky was darkening in a spectacular
fashion as I made the main street. The sinking sun painted wisps of
clouds with impossible light over the waterfront. The street’s
quaint cobblestones seemed to shine in a glaze; neatly dressed
passersby strolled gaily along, the perfect human accouterment to
an evening rife with tranquil charm. At that moment, it occurred to
me: I’d never felt more content.