The Innswich Horror

dozen women contentedly shucking and canning fresh oysters. Most of them were pregnant.

Zalen’s assessment of the town’s industrial hub rang too true. I saw at once, in spite of the gorgeous, surf- scented vista of the harbor, that Innswich Point was indeed a very dull sight to behold. But, oh, to have seen it as Lovecraft did! At least Zalen’s photo would allow me a facsimile of the privilege. Now all that remained was the partial name that the Master had borrowed. More disappointment struck me when I gazed out to the reef but then recalled that it was no reef at all but a ho-hum sandbar. Workers about the Point’s many fish processors and boat docks were mainly strong, plain-faced men, much like the few I’d shared the bus with. I wouldn’t say that they glared at me, but their cast was not particularly welcoming. This, for sure now, was the impetus for Garret’s condemnation of the male populace; he was referring to these surly watermen.

The blockhouse of the ice-making facility clattered and roared, loud trucks coming and going. From a higher window in one of the fish plants, though, a pretty faced woman smiled at me, and as I left, several more women in another open blockhouse smiled at me as well. They sat at long tables, repairing fishing nets.

Most of them were pregnant.

I left the innocuous scene and its every day toil behind me. An appetite had built up since my ice cream with Mary, and suddenly I was so looking forward to my luncheon with her on the morrow. Nor had I forgotten my dinner appointment with the high-spirited Mr. William Garret, though I regretted I had gleaned no news of his misplaced associate. When a distant bell tolled three times, I knew I’d never last another four hours till dinner so, next, I found myself strolling north up the main road, exiting the town proper.

By now the day’s heat got to me. I placed my suit jacket and tie in the briefcase, then continued along. Like Lovecraft, I was accustomed to walking considerable distances daily. Perhaps the Master strolled this same road as well, I pondered. Trees lined both sides of the lane. The scenery’s tranquility was much welcome after the unpleasant affair with Cyrus Zalen.

Ah! I thought, noticing the mailbox at the end of a long dirt drive on the westward side of the road. The name on the box was Simpson, and all at once, I was tempted to follow Zalen’s queer advice and go and introduce myself to Mary’s stepfather and children, but then thought better of it. Mary had implied that her stepfather wasn’t well. Better to wait, came my sensible decision. If destiny would have me meet her stepfather, Mary should be present.

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 29^th 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