When my turn came in line, I was attended by a weathered, overall’d man wearing a crushed train-worker’s hat, whom I presumed to be the business’ namesake. “What’ll be, stranger?” came a gravel-voice inquiry tinted with European accent.
I saw no menu board. “It all smells so wonderful. What items do you offer, sir?”
“Pulled-pork sam-itches, or hocks with greens. What most folks git’re the pulled pork. Best yuh’ve ever et, and if it ain’t, it’s free.”
“A worthy confidence!” I delighted. “Let me have one,” and within a moment I was handed a sandwich heaped with said barbeque and half-wrapped in newspaper.
“Take a bite ‘fore ya pay,” Onderdonk reminded. “Then tell me it ain’t the best yuh’ve ever et.”
One bite verified the guarantee. “It’s pre-eminent, sir,” I told him. “I’ve sampled pulled pork from Kansas City to the Carolinas, and even in Texas, and… this is superior.”
Onderdonk nodded, unimpressed. “‘S’what a fishman’s gotta do when he can’t fish proper. I think the word is ingenuity. It was me who thought’a feedin’ the swine fish. Makes the meat moister, so’s you can smoke it slower and longer.”
“It’s certainly a recipe for success,” I complimented. I insisted he keep the change from my dollar for the twenty-five cent sandwich. “But… you’re formerly a fisherman?”
“Like my daddy’n his daddy, and so on.” The roughened man suddenly soured. “Can’t get no fish no more. Ain’t right. But this works just fine.”
My curiosity was fueled. “You can tell, sir, I’m not from these parts, but what I’ve noticed in Olmstead—the Innswich Point area—is that fish seem to be more than abundant.”
“Sure, it is—for Olmsteaders, which me’n my boy ain’t, even though we’ve owned this bit of land since way back.” The topic had clearly struck a bad chord. “We’se outsiders far as they’re concerned. Anytime me’n my boy been out for a proper day’s fishin’, they run us off. Rough bunch, some’a them Olmstead fellas. Can’t have my boy gettin’ beat up over fish.”
Territorialism, I knew at once. It was more widespread than most knew; in my own town, lobstering families were known to feud, and clammers, too. “It’s regrettable, sir. But the proof of your ingenuity has created an alternate market that I’m sure will prosper.”
“Mmm,” he uttered.
“So I take it this matter of territory forces you to buy the fish with which you feed your pigs.”
“Naw, that we can catch ourselfs—see, every night me’n the boy sneak out to the north end’a the Point, throw a few cast nets, then sneak back right after. We ain’t more’n ten minutes on the water, then we’re gone. It’s only enough time to pull up a bucket or two’a bait fish, but that’s all we need for the swine.”
“Well, at least your system is working,” I offered.
“Yeah, I s’pose it is.” The man’s young son, at this point, came to stand by his father. Onderdonk patted his shoulder. “He works hard for a little shaver, and I want him to learn right. It’s the American way.”
“Indeed, it is,” I said and smiled at the boy, but then to Onderdonk I asked, “I happen to be quite given to pork ribs as well. Are they ever on your menu?”
“Ribs? Aw, yeah, but we only do ‘em twice weekly. They sell out in a couple’a hours. You come back two days from now, and we’ll have some up.” He gestured the pig pen. “Soon the boy’n me’ll be puttin’ Harding in the smoker. Harding’s that fat ‘un there.”
I presumed me meant the largest of the pigs. But I had to laugh. “But you haven’t named your pig after America’s 29th president!”
“That I did!” the working man exclaimed. “And am damn proud of it. ‘S’was Harding’s lollygaggin’ and that Tea Pot Dome business that done led to the stock market crashin’ and leavin’ all of America the way it is!”
Of this I could hardly argue but was still amused.
“Took an honest fella—Calvin Coolidge—to give respect back to the nation’s highest office, yes sir!” He winked. “Ya won’t see none’a my swine named Coolidge, now. But in that sty we also got Taft, Wilson, Garner, and that socialist FDR!”
My. The man certainly had political convictions, odd for a rough-handed working man. “So,” I jested. “I’ll return day after tomorrow to sample some of Harding’s smoked ribs!”
“You do that, sir, and ya won’t be disappointed!”
I bade my farewell, then patted the silent boy on the head and gave him a dollar bill. “A gratuity for you, young man, for doing such good, hard work for your fine father.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy peeped.
“A good day to ya!” Onderdonk reveled, and then I walked off.
It did my spirits good to see the working class persevere even in the low economic times. The man was to be admired. Being unfairly barred from the plentitude of local fishing, he’d contravened the obstacle, to succeed nonetheless.
Back down the road I strolled, a mixture of thought now elevating my mood. Certainly, the fine meal, and the equally fine day; the knowledge that tomorrow I would own a rare photograph of H.P. Lovecraft; the likelihood of another fine meal tonight at Wraxall’s Eatery, (for, fresh seafood—even more so than pork—was an appreciated indulgence) and just the simple gratification that I was, indeed, walking where Lovecraft once walked.
And there was one other thing, too, which founded my elation.
Mary.
Mary Simpson, I mused. So beautiful. So kind and genuine and hard-working. A uniqueness, even if she had once suffered degradations in her unfortunate past. Pregnant with no present husband, still she worked to fulfill her responsibilities. I admitted only now that I was falling in platonic love with her, and platonic it would have to remain for I could not fathom anything more, no matter how urgently I may have wished it.
And I would see her tomorrow for luncheon.
I spun, my heart bucking in my chest. The surprise had taken me with the most unpleasant manner of suddenness.
From the westerly woods I had, for sure, heard a noise.
I was not at all suited for imbroglio, but—now—I knew I was being spied upon, and I was determined not to be harassed.
I peered intensely into the wood, then may have heard a twig snap. “I hear you!” I exclaimed, and did not hesitate to step through the curtain of trees. “Show yourself like a man!”
Several more twigs snapped as my stalker had clearly embarked deeper into the trees. I wasn’t sure why, but I continued to give well-gauged chase.
Fifty yards into the woods, a dappling of sunlight betrayed the stalking entity.
For only the briefest second, I glimpsed the figure, not his face but his attire: the long, greasy black raincoat and hood.
“Really, Mr. Zalen, this is no way to treat a paying customer!” my voice surged into the trees. “If it’s thievery on your mind, I can assure you, I’m well-armed!”
This much was true, and from my trouser pocket I’d already withdrawn the small hammerless semi-automatic I’d bought at the Colt Patent Firearms Company in Hartford. It was a Model 1903, which I’d read had been the weapon notorious bank robber John Dillinger had carried the day he’d been gunned down. I was not a crack shot, but with a full magazine, I was crack enough.