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your
guidance.”
    She gripped my forearm
with some determination. “At least make a deal with me, Foster. I
think Paul has an extra copy of the photo. If so, I’ll get it for
you, if you promise not to go to Cyrus Zalen’s.”
    I was touched to the point of amusement by
the vigor with which she insisted I not meet this man. “All right,
Mary. I promise.”
    She beamed a smile, then gave me a sudden
hug which almost made me flinch. The all too brief contact brought
my cheek to hers. The scent of her hair was luxuriant.
    “And I can’t thank you enough,” I went on,
“for your acceptance of my invitation for luncheon tomorrow. Oh,
and here—for your wonderful ice cream.” I put five-dollars on the
counter.
    “But it’s only five cents—”
    “Keep it, please. You can buy a special
treat for your stepfather and children.”
    The moment lengthened. Her eyes held on
mine. “You’re very nice, Foster,” she gushed. “Thank you…”
    “Until tomorrow, then!” and I was off.
    I left in a blissful rush, not only quite
taken by the cherubic and lovely girl but also by this new and
surprising kindle to my obsession.
    I knew at once that I must
break the promise I’d made. Her concern was obviously exaggerated,
and I couldn’t very well deprive her brother of a photograph that
must mean a great deal to him. The
poorhouse behind the new fire station, I
recalled, and—there! A sign right before me read FIREHOUSE with an
arrow pointing west. A sudden uproar startled me, when several more
fish-laden trucks hauled around the cobblestoned circle, but when
they passed I noticed that the westernmost road entry was cordoned
off and closed—sewerpipe workers were digging—so I thought it best
to cut around behind the row of block buildings that housed
Baxter’s General Store, Wraxall’s Eatery, and the others. The
alleyway gave wide birth and I was pleased to find it clean, free
of garbage and its attendant stench, and absent of vermin. I was
halfway along, though, when I heard a voice so wee I thought it
must be my imagination.
    I stopped, listened…
    “Bugger. You did that on
purpose. I know you did. You want to mess things up for me.”
    True, the voice was oh-so-faint but
unmistakably the voice of Mary, and when I turned I noticed a
narrow window opened just a crack.
    It was not my nature at
all—please, believe me—but something connatural in my psyche forced my eyes to that
crack…
    Time seemed to freeze when my vision fully
registered the macabre scene within. A thin, haggard man sat
troubled in a wheelchair—Paul, no doubt. Either age or despair ran
lines down his face like a wood-carver’s awl; his hair was a shaggy
tumult. But the severity of his overall physical state trivialized
the ramshackled appearance and uncleanliness.
    I felt wounded appraising him…
    His legs ended at the knees, leaving sleeves
of empty denim.
    His arms ended at the elbows.
    My God, I thought. I’d never imagined that the accident
Mary referred to could’ve been so calamitous. My spirit was left
tamped when the thought impacted me: that this ruined twig of a man
had just over a decade ago been the energetic seventeen-year-old
“grocery youth” who’d generously prepared Lovecraft/Robert Olmstead
with a hand-drawn map of the town.
    And what was now taking place was a pitiable
site, indeed.
    The girth of Mary’s belly made it difficult
for her to bend over, yet bend over she did, after fiddled at
Paul’s trousers. It was clear now what his problem had been
earlier. A bucket in the corner of the office told me that’s where
he’d been struggling to when he’d flopped himself out of the chair:
for the purpose of urinating, a task not easily accomplished given
his disabilities. I could only presume that his trousers were left
perpetually open for such emergencies.
    Distaste plainly stamped on her face, Mary
held a tin can betwixt the poor man’s legs, into which he now
voided his bladder.
    Her wince intensified. “For