“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.”