by Edward Lee
I’d read of this: a rather scrimy forty-cents per hour. But then I had to keep reminding myself that chance—and my father’s hard work, not my own—had handed me a status much more fortunate than that of most.
She filled my water glass as I took a seat. “Did you find a nice, quiet place to read your book?”
“Oh, The Shadow Over Innsmouth…” I’d almost forgotten that had been my original goal. “Actually, I was so busy gallivanting about town that I never got round to it. Tomorrow, though. After our lunch date, which I dearly hope is still on.”
Suddenly she sighed, then drooped her head dramatically. “Are you kidding? I can’t wait. It’ll be my first afternoon off in weeks.”
This disconcerted me. “Mary, there’s nothing more admirable than a hard-worker,” and then I leaned close, “but I wish you didn’t have to put in such hours while you’re with child.”
“You’re so sweet, Foster,” she grinned and squeezed my hand. “But hard work is what made America, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, if a bit guiltily.
“Besides, Dr. Anstruther says it’s fine to work until the eighth month, just nothing too strenuous.”
I’m sure this were true, but it still bothered me. When she leaned over to hand me the menu, I could detect a bit of her bosom’s valley, then recalled, first, the jaded photograph and, next, the split-second glimpse I’d caught of her breast in the back room of Baxter’s. Then there it was again, that perfect valley of flesh.
I nearly ground my teeth as I looked away. God! I hope she hadn’t noticed…
Another distraction was needed, but this time, I needn’t manufacture one. A brass ship’s clock on the wall showed me I was five minutes late. “Say, Mary? Has a respectably dressed man, perhaps in his late-‘20s, been in? Brown, short hair? His name is William Garret.”
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.
It was a shrill siren that ripped the evening’s placidity. I turned the corner and noticed a long red and white ambulance pulled right up on the sidewalk, with several uniformed attendants bustling about. Several residents stood aside, looking on with concern.
What’s this all about? I thought, then felt my spirit plummet when I noticed that the commotion was centered around the bargain store I’d visited previously. At the same moment a stretcher was borne out from the shop, and on it was a very still and very blanch-faced Mr. Nowry. In the doorway, the man’s
expectant wife sobbed openly.
Oh, no…
“Poor Mr. Nowry,” a small voice announced to my side. “He was such a nice man.”
I turned to see an attractive red-haired woman standing next to me. “I-I hope he hasn’t expired. He was as congenial a man as you could ever hope to meet; why, I spoke to him just hours ago.”
“Probably another coronary attack,” she ventured.
“I’ll go and see,” I said, and made my way to the receding commotion. “Sir? I’m sorry to intrude,” I asked of one of the ambulance men, “but could you confide in me as to the status of Mr. Nowry?”
The younger man looked bleary-eyed from a long day. “I’m afraid he died a few minutes ago. There was nothing we could do this time—his ticker finally went out.”
I bowed my head. “I scarcely knew him, but he was a good man from what I could see.”
“Oh, sure, an Olmsteader through and through.” He forearmed his brow. “But it’s been a strange day, I’ll tell ya.”
“In what way?”
“Small town like this, we don’t get more than two of three deaths a year, but today? We’ve had two now.”
“Two? How tragic.”
Now the stretcher bearing the decedent was loaded into the rear compartment of the vehicle. The man to whom I was speaking pointed inside. “A young girl, too, not a half-hour ago. One of those not in with a decent crowd, but still… She died in childbirth.”
I looked to where he was pointing and noticed a second stretcher.
Instantly, my throat thickened.
It was a thin, lank-haired girl in her twenties who lay dead next to Mr. Nowry, a sheet covering her to the chin. Even in the pallor of death, though, I recognized her face.
It was Candace—one of Zalen’s ill-reputed photo models and prostitutes. But the great, swollen belly was gone now, only swollen breasts showing beneath the white sheet.
“Please, tell me her baby survived,” I implored.
“The baby’s fine,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Praise God…”
The man looked at me in the oddest way, then closed the long back door of the hospital coach, and went on his way.
