My wince communicated my inconvenience, but suddenly I was curious, as to where Mary lived in her life of travail and the burden of so many children she was raising all without the help of a man. “Onderdonks,” I repeated. “Oh, the roadside stand I saw?”
“Yeah. And try the barbeque,” though this time, I wasn’t sure how to decipher his belligerent tone of voice.
I was determined to leave now; I would allow no further badgering but as I commenced, he added, “And you might want to read that book a little more closely, too.”
I turned on the cracked walk. “Surely you don’t mean The Shadow Over Innsmouth.”
“What did you think?”
“I’ve read it dozens of times, Mr. Zalen, with great attentiveness. I can likely quote most of its 25,000 words verbatim, so whatever do you mean?”
The sun highlighted the coarse details of this utterly corroded man. “In the story, what happened to outsiders who did too much nosing around, Mr. Morley?”
I walked away, almost amused now by this final, cheap attempt at melodrama.
“And tonight?” he called after me, “when you’re fucking Mary for a couple of bucks? Tell her the father of her third or fourth kid says hi…”
So much for my amusement. The man was intolerable, and perhaps he was working on my psyche with a bit more effect than I’d care to admit. The only thing I hated more than him was what his manipulation had caused me to do.
When I found a secluded recess of trees, I opened the folder and looked at that fifth picture beneath the photos of the town. It was a photograph of Mary, of course, in depressingly expert resolution and lighting. She was naked, yes, and—worse—pregnant, yet even in this state she managed a gracile posture for Zalen’s wretched lens. It was some horrendous collision of opposites that had triggered my instantaneous purchase. But I knew, I knew for the life of me and for the love of God, that I WAS NOT one of Zalen’s degenerate clients. It was the shock of the aforementioned collision that forced me to buy it: loveliness wed to a revolting design, the grace of beauty hand in hand with the balefulness of womanhood subjugated. It occurred to me now that Mary was so beautiful, I could’ve cringed. I would’ve guessed her to be five years younger in the picture but if anything her current beauty shined even more intensely. So what if a portion of Zalen’s salacious slander was, in essence, fact? Even if, in dimmer times, she had been a prostitute, who was I to judge?
I would not. For time immemorial, women have been exploited within the grips of a man’s lustful world; Mary’s past deeds mattered none to me, because I know that God forgives all. I could only pray that He would forgive me.
Back toward the town’s center, I found a bargain shop which had precisely what I needed: a small briefcase. I made my purchase from yet another amiable Olmsteader, a Mr. Nowry, who was very gracious over my tip. “Where might I find the most direct route to the waterfront?” I asked.
“Just follow the main cobble out front, sir,” he pointed. “That’ll take ya straight to the water. And a beautiful waterfront it is.”
“Yes, I’m certain, and thank you.”
“Just make sure,” he rushed to add, “you’re not there after dark.”
The kind warning didn’t set well. “But Olmstead hardly seems—”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s a fine town’a fine people. But any town, mind ya, has got its bad apples.”
True enough. Before I left, I noticed whom I presumed must be his wife in a back office, scribbling on papers.
Her overlarge frock-dress made no secret of the fact she was pregnant.
Another woman with child, I thought, and I tried with difficulty at first to cogitate my concern. True, I’d encountered what seemed to be an undue number of pregnant women in the little time since I’d arrived, but then I had to remind myself I was essentially a cosmopolite in a new and quite blue collar little village. In truth, I supported the government’s initiatives to encourage population-growth. These small townships were more close-knit and, obviously, more conceptive, which was all for the greater good in the long run. Remembering this, I reconsidered my initial reaction to the number of expectant mothers I’d seen. Surely, it was not as undue as I’d thought.
As I leisurely approached the waterfront, though, I noticed a short open blockhouse in which I could see a full dozen women contentedly shucking and canning fresh oysters. Most of them were pregnant.
Zalen’s assessment of the town’s industrial hub rang too true. I saw at once, in spite of the gorgeous, surf-scented vista of the harbor, that Innswich Point was indeed a very dull sight to behold. But, oh, to have seen it as Lovecraft did! At least Zalen’s photo would allow me a facsimile of the privilege. Now all that remained was the partial name that the Master had borrowed. More disappointment struck me when I gazed out to the reef but then recalled that it was no reef at all but a ho-hum sandbar. Workers about the Point’s many fish processors and boat docks were mainly strong, plain-faced men, much like the few I’d shared the bus with. I wouldn’t say that they glared at me, but their cast was not particularly welcoming. This, for sure now, was the impetus for Garret’s condemnation of the male populace; he was referring to these surly watermen.
The blockhouse of the ice-making facility clattered and roared, loud trucks coming and going. From a higher window in one of the fish plants, though, a pretty faced woman smiled at me, and as I left, several more women in another open blockhouse smiled at me as well. They sat at long tables, repairing fishing nets.
Most of them were pregnant.
I left the innocuous scene and its every day toil behind me. An appetite had built up since my ice cream with Mary, and suddenly I was so looking forward to my luncheon with her on the morrow. Nor had I forgotten my dinner appointment with the high-spirited Mr. William Garret, though I regretted I had gleaned no news of his misplaced associate. When a distant bell tolled three times, I knew I’d never last another four hours till dinner so, next, I found myself strolling north up the main road, exiting the town proper.
By now the day’s heat got to me. I placed my suit jacket and tie in the briefcase, then continued along. Like Lovecraft, I was accustomed to walking considerable distances daily. Perhaps the Master strolled this same road as well, I pondered. Trees lined both sides of the lane. The scenery’s tranquility was much welcome after the unpleasant affair with Cyrus Zalen.
Ah! I thought, noticing the mailbox at the end of a long dirt drive on the westward side of the road. The name on the box was Simpson, and all at once, I was tempted to follow Zalen’s queer advice and go and introduce myself to Mary’s stepfather and children, but then thought better of it. Mary had implied that her stepfather wasn’t well. Better to wait, came my sensible decision. If destiny would have me meet her stepfather, Mary should be present.
Perhaps the sudden seclusion created the notion, but as I continued along, I received the most aggravating—and most proverbial—impression that I was being watched. Through the woods on the shoreward side I could see quite deeply; I could even see the edges of Innswich Point, but easterly? The woods loomed deep and dark. Just at the fringes of my aural senses I could swear I heard something moving, enshrouded. Just a raccoon, more than likely, or simply nothing more than imagination, but immediately the most appetizing aroma came to my nostrils. The roadside stand and smokehouse was just ahead, and now the ragtag sign beckoned me: ONDERDONK & SON. SMOKEHOUSE — FISH-FED PORK. Large penned pigs—five of them—chortled as a youth in his early teens filled their trough with boiled smelts and other bait fish. I was happy to see several bicycles and two motor-cars parked on the roadside, their owners standing in line at the stand. It was always good to witness a prospering enterprise.