by Edward Lee
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.
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 Hartf
ord. 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.
Zalen stood still but had clearly heard me. At once, he bolted and let himself be swallowed by the woods.
“I’m disappointed, Mr. Zalen!” came my next call. “But, thief or not, don’t forget our appointment tomorrow!”
The density of trees soaked up my voice. A shy, retiring sort as myself might be shaken by such a near-confrontation but I felt nothing of the sort. I felt calm, confident, and unwavered, and I had no intention of avoiding Zalen tomorrow. He had something I wanted, and I would pay for it as planned. Now that he’d been apprised that I armed myself, he’d be uninclined for any untoward behavior.
When I turned to reverse myself from the woods and regain the road, I saw the house.
Mary’s house, to be sure.
Only the dimmest sunlight penetrated the intricate umbrella of high boughs. The region’s all-pervading lack of rainfall had reduced the forest ground to a carpet of tinder. I first dismissed what I was seeing as a hillock, but then a more concentrated scrutiny showed me small, single-paned windows amid a long, vast sprawl of ivy. Eventually I detected corners that had not so been overrun, as well as a slate roof and chimney made of the old tabby bricks from the pre-Revolution period. Beyond the squat and ivy-covered abode, though, stood a clearing radiant with sun and there a lone, wee figure seemed to frolic. As I peered closer, I saw that it was a young boy firing arrows with a crude and more than likely hand-made bow. The arrows were those made for children, with rubber suction cups at their tips, and with these the lad determinedly took aim at an old, propped up window frame which still contained glass.
So this was one of Mary’s older children. Odd, though, that only one would be enjoying these splendid outdoors. This close to the house, I expected to hear and see evidence off all eight of her children. She implied that her stepfather looked after the younger ones, I recalled. Yet the house sat in an almost palpable silence.
At once, I felt encroaching, even trespassing. It was only the pursuit of Zalen that had led me this deeply into the parched woods. Nevertheless, however impelled to leave, I remained, staring at the leaf-enshrouded house. The impulse to look in a window was very strong, but then I had to chide myself. Not only would that’ve been the act of a cad—which I was not—it would’ve been illegal. I have no right to be here, so I must leave. But I had to wonder about the motives of my deepest subconscious—or what Freud called the Id.
Was it Mary that my Id hoped to spy upon?
When I turned to leave, I almost shouted.
There, standing immediately before me, was the boy.
I recovered quickly from the start. “Why, hello there, young man. My name is Foster Morley.”
“Hello,” he replied blushfully. He was thin, bright-eyed, and had that look of so many children: curious wonder and ripe innocence. He looked tenish—it was so hard to tell with adolescents—and had been dressed neatly but in threadbare clothes. One hand held the makeshift bow, the other a quiver of the suction-cupped arrows. After a moment, he said, “My name’s Walter, sir.”
“Walter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He timidly shook my offered hand. “Now, would your last name happen to be Simpson?”
He seemed to quell surprise. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, how do you like that! I’m a friend of your mother’s. I spoke to her just this morning at Mr. Baxter’s. You should be proud to have such a hard-working mother.”
He seemed quietly astonished by this information. “Yes, sir, I’m very proud, and so is my gramps.”
His “gramps” could only be Mary’s stepfather.
“He’s asleep now,” he went on. “He’s… old.”
“Yes, and for the elderly we must always have respect.” I glanced at his twine-and-tree-switch bow. “My, Walter, you’re quite the archer. Practice makes perfect,” and then I pointed to his window-frame target from which several arrows had attached themselves, “and by the looks of your impressive skills, you may one day find yourself on the Olympic archery team.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked with excitement.
“Of course, if you remain diligent and continue to practice. When you’re older, you’ll need to train with a real bow, but I’m sure a careful boy such as yourself needn’t have to wait much longer for that.”
“My mom said I could have a real bow when she makes enough money to buy one. But I can only use it when she’s watching.”
“That’s good advice, son. ‘Honor thy mother,’ like it says in the Bible.”
“Are you here… to see her?” he asked. “She’s still at work.”
I didn’t want to lie to the youth, yet I couldn’t very well tell him I was pursuing a stalker nearby. “No, Walter, I was merely having a nature walk when I happened upon you and your house. These woods are quite a treat for me, for I spend most of my time in the city. In Providence.”
“Oh. I walk in the woods a lot too, sir.” He pointed just behind the house. “There’s a neat trail right over there that goes all the way back to town through the trees. That’s how my mom walks to work every day.”
“Why, I’m grateful for your advice, young man,” I enthused. “I’ll be sure to take that trail back myself. But, tell me. Why are you out here all by yourself? Surely you have brothers and sisters old enough to play with.”
His eyes blankened, as though the question were a stifling one. “I have to go now, sir, to help my gramps.”
“Of course, and what a fine young man you are to be so attentive to your grandfather.” It was all I could say, for it seemed that to press him about my previous question would only put him on the spot. Still, I had to think, Mary’s got seven more children. Are they all in the house? “But before you’re off, Walter, let me give you a present.” I was probably out of bounds by doing this, yet I couldn’t resist. “And I’m sure your mother and gramps have quite wisely advised you not to take gifts from strangers, but we’re not strangers, you and I, are we?”
“No, not really, Mr. Foster,” though the mention of a present had clearly throttled his attention.
“What I’d like you to do is take this and buy yourself a better bow,” and then I gave him a ten-dollar bill. “And with what’s left, wouldn’t it be nice to buy your mother some flowers?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it would!” he almost shouted with glee.
“And when your mother asks where you got the money, just say her friend, Mr. Morley.”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you a lot!”
“You’re quite welcome, Walter. I hope to see you again.”
I smiled as he scampered off to the squat house, entered a barely seen door, and disappeared.
What harm could there be? I only hoped I’d made the lad’s day. I set to locate Walter’s path just behind the house, but again found myself thwarted… as more questions occurred. Where exactly were the other children? And why had Walter been so reluctant to answer my inquiry?
I skirted round the back of the house, toward the clearing, yet while doing so I deliberately kept an eye out for windows. The last window that would be available to me before I made the clearing was almost entirely ivy-covered.
What could I possibly say for myself should the stepfather see me peering in?
Yet peer in I did, unmindful of the very awkward risk, and why I did this, I’ll never be sure.
I only know that I wish I hadn’t.
Through the bleary fragment of available glass I first spied a close, brick-lined middle room surrounding a modest fireplace, an additional woodstove, and furniture that I must describe as makeshift. If anything I was glad that they’d improved the utility of their poverty by reusing items—such as boxes, crates, and unattached bricks—for alternate purposes. Several crates, for instance, formed the foundation for a bed and, evidently, a great sack of burlap, stuffed with dried leave
s, sufficed for the mattress, over which typical sheets had been lain. A cupboard housed not drinking glasses but reused tin cans for the same purpose. A table, whose top was fashioned by wooded wall slats of irregular length, had legs actually made from stouter tree branches. This glaring squalor injured me…and in my mind I was already calculating how much my wealth would be able to help this destitute but fully functioning family.
I ducked back, when in the moment previous, a door within had opened. Young Walter first appeared, and what followed at his side was a faltering figure and a tap-tap-tapping sound. It was only the sparest daylight through the minute windows that afforded any light at all. The figure, as I squinted, seemed to be using crutches, and though it was through a wedge of darkness that this figure walked, my detection of long, grey hair told me that this could only be Mary’s stepfather; Walter was helping him along, toward the makeshift bed.
The oddest noises of protestation resounded when he finally got to the bed and, with great difficulty, managed to lie down in it. I could make out almost nothing in the way of details, but the broader scope of his afflictions—some massive form of arthritis, I presumed—were quite clear by the crookedness of his limbs. Was the hand that picked up the piece of cardboard to use as a fan… missing fingers?
“Here’s some water, gramps,” Walter said and brought him one of the tin cans. My angle showed me little, only Walter carefully tilting the can for him to drink out of. The over-loud chugging sound caused my brow to rise.
“Um, gramps,” Walter began. “There was this man, outside. He’s a friend of mom’s and his name is Foster Morley…”
The horrendously palsied figure seemed to lean up, and in doing so I saw a tragically unnatural curve to his spine. But it was Walter’s words that had caused him to lean closer.
“And-and… he gave me this,” the youth hesitated, then showed the ten-dollar bill. “To buy mom some flowers.”
The stepfather’s reaction to this information is something I’m sure I will never forget.
He lurched forward, deepening the arch to his back, shot out a hand that clearly was deformed, and then emitted a vocal objection in no language I’d ever heard: a high, almost bearing-like squeal underlain with suboctave grunts and what I can only call a mad tweaking, rising and lowering, and an accommodating sound that reminded me of something wet spattering somewhere.