She could only mean a wheelchair.
The moment had struck an awkward note but it was that same selfishness of mine that sufficed to turn the subject. “Before I’m on my way, I have a question.”
She leaned over, elbows on counter, chin in fists, and smiled in a way that struck me as dreamy, though I couldn’t imagine that my presence solicited the look. “Ask me anything, Foster. You’re really an interesting man.”
Did I audibly gulp? I hope not! “I’ve decided to find a quiet place outdoors to read,” and then I held up my book. “See, reading the story whose setting Lovecraft formed by his direct impressions of this very town strikes me as fascinating; it’s my favorite story of any, and re-reading it here will allow for an entirely new perception.”
“I think I know what you mean,” she said. “But the Olmstead you’re seeing today is nothing alike what Mr. Lovecraft saw when he was here so many years ago.”
“That’s my point!” I exclaimed of her perceptivity. “Would you by chance have a photograph of Olmstead before the rebuild? I’d love to compare it to Lovecraft’s descriptions in the book.”
“We’ve never had a camera, but…” She held a finger up. “There is a man you could try talking to. Er, well, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
Was she teasing me now? I absolutely quailed. “Mary, I implore you, please—”
“There’s a townsman who used to be a photographer; he trained in New York even, and took pictures for newspapers. He even took a picture of Mr. Lovecraft standing on the New Church Green with Paul. You can see the entire waterfront in the background, the harbor inlet and lighthouse, the old Larsh Refinery, and the town dock, which they used to call Innswich Point back then.”
I could’ve collapsed by these new parallels! Innswich: obviously a variation of Innsmouth. The dead lighthouse which overlooked the notorious Devil’s Reef from whence came the batrachian Deep Ones. And the Larsh Refinery: in Lovecraft’s grand tale, it was at the Marsh Refinery where the gift of gold trinkets bestowed to human worshipers by the Deep Ones was melted down and sold on the market. I MUST see that picture! I determined.
“Please, Mary. How can I find this photographer? It’s imperative, truly—”
Her chin slumped in her palms. “How can I say no to you? I only mean that it’s not a good idea. The man’s name is Cyrus Zalen. He’s about forty but he looks sixty, and you can’ miss him. He always wears the same long greasy black raincoat. He smells horrible and he’s… well, he’s just not nice. He lives at the poorhouse behind the new fire station.”
Cyrus Zalen. Presumably a breadliner or, to use Lovecraft’s term, a “loafer.” In Providence, they called them “bums” and “rummies.” “An unfortunate turn of fate for a newspaper photographer,” I remarked.
“He was a fine photographer… before he got mixed up with the heroin. In New York he got hooked up with ex-soldiers who’d become addicted to it when they went on leave in France, a city called… Marcy? I can’t remember.”
“Marseilles,” I corrected. I’d read of these places there called heroin laboratories where they converted the resin from opium poppies into this devastating new drug. “Still, I’ll have to find Mr. Zalen.”
The prospect seemed to worry her. “Please don’t, Foster. He’s not a nice man. He’ll try to connive money out of you, and he may even be a thief. He’s known to do… immoral things, but it would be unladlylike for me to explain. And this was so many years ago, at least ten, I guess. I’m sure he doesn’t have the photo anymore anyway. Really, Foster, don’t go there.” She leaned even closer. “It’s a dirty place where he lives—there’s probably diseases. A woman died of typhus there several years ago.”
I didn’t take her warning lightly, actually flattered by her concern for my well-being. But if it was money that Mr. Zalen wanted for his old pictures, then money he would have. My wallet was chock full.
“You needn’t worry, Mary. I’m of hardy enough stock. I survived the outbreaks of 1919 and 1923, and, in fact, I’ve not been sick a day in my life. I’ll be very careful when interviewing Mr. Zalen, and I can’t thank you enough for your guidance.”
She gripped my forearm with some determination. “At least make a deal with me, Foster. I think Paul has an extra copy of the photo. If so, I’ll get it for you, if you promise not to go to Cyrus Zalen’s.”
I was touched to the point of amusement by the vigor with which she insisted I not meet this man. “All right, Mary. I promise.”
She beamed a smile, then gave me a sudden hug which almost made me flinch. The all too brief contact brought my cheek to hers. The scent of her hair was luxuriant.
“And I can’t thank you enough,” I went on, “for your acceptance of my invitation for luncheon tomorrow. Oh, and here—for your wonderful ice cream.” I put five-dollars on the counter.
“But it’s only five cents—”
“Keep it, please. You can buy a special treat for your stepfather and children.”
The moment lengthened. Her eyes held on mine. “You’re very nice, Foster,” she gushed. “Thank you…”
“Until tomorrow, then!” and I was off.
I left in a blissful rush, not only quite taken by the cherubic and lovely girl but also by this new and surprising kindle to my obsession.
I knew at once that I must break the promise I’d made. Her concern was obviously exaggerated, and I couldn’t very well deprive her brother of a photograph that must mean a great deal to him. The poorhouse behind the new fire station, I recalled, and—there! A sign right before me read FIREHOUSE with an arrow pointing west. A sudden uproar startled me, when several more fish-laden trucks hauled around the cobblestoned circle, but when they passed I noticed that the westernmost road entry was cordoned off and closed—sewerpipe workers were digging—so I thought it best to cut around behind the row of block buildings that housed Baxter’s General Store, Wraxall’s Eatery, and the others. The alleyway gave wide birth and I was pleased to find it clean, free of garbage and its attendant stench, and absent of vermin. I was halfway along, though, when I heard a voice so wee I thought it must be my imagination.
I stopped, listened…
“Bugger. You did that on purpose. I know you did. You want to mess things up for me.”
True, the voice was oh-so-faint but unmistakably the voice of Mary, and when I turned I noticed a narrow window opened just a crack.
It was not my nature at all—please, believe me—but something connatural in my psyche forced my eyes to that crack…
Time seemed to freeze when my vision fully registered the macabre scene within. A thin, haggard man sat troubled in a wheelchair—Paul, no doubt. Either age or despair ran lines down his face like a wood-carver’s awl; his hair was a shaggy tumult. But the severity of his overall physical state trivialized the ramshackled appearance and uncleanliness.
I felt wounded appraising him…
His legs ended at the knees, leaving sleeves of empty denim.
His arms ended at the elbows.
My God, I thought. I’d never imagined that the accident Mary referred to could’ve been so calamitous. My spirit was left tamped when the thought impacted me: that this ruined twig of a man had just over a decade ago been the energetic seventeen-year-old “grocery youth” who’d generously prepared Lovecraft/Robert Olmstead with a hand-drawn map of the town.