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Authors: Edward Lee
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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
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
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