The Innswich Horror by Edward Lee Page A

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