Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

Desperate to draw attention away from his increasing physical abnormalities, Marston said, “No, I’m afraid she didn’t.”

Blenheim frowned, “Who didn’t what?”

“My mother. She never taught me to take care of myself. She never taught me anything. I never knew her. My father told me that she loved to swim. They lived in Chicago and she would swim in Lake Michigan all year round. She joined a group, they called themselves the Polar Bear Club, and they would plunge into the lake every New Year’s Day, no matter how cold it was, even if it was snowing. But that was just a stunt. They used to get their picture in the Chicago Times and the Tribune and the Sun. But Mother took it all very seriously. The photographers loved her, she was the only female Polar Bear.”

He took a deep draught of golden liqueur.

“She was an immigrant,” he resumed. “I never knew where she was born. Father just said it was a cold country. I was born on December 25th, you know,” he changed the subject. “I was a Christmas baby.” He said it with bitterness. “Father brought Mother and me home from the hospital on New Year’s Eve. The next day Mother insisted on her annual plunge with the other Polar Bears. They used to run out into the lake, throw themselves into the surf, frisk for a few minutes and then come running back out of the water. But Mother swam out. Snow was falling, Father told me, and visibility was poor. Mother just swam out into the lake. They sent search parties after her but they never found her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aurelia Blenheim said. She started again to reach for his hand, then drew back, avoiding a repetition of his previous withdrawal. After a moment she said, “Did your father ever re-marry?”

Marston shook his head. “He raised me alone, as best he could, until he was gunned down when I was six. I had no other relatives and I wound up bouncing from one orphanage to another until I went out on my own.”

“But you’ve made such a success of yourself, Delbert. I never knew about your childhood. How sad. But look at you now, a tenured professor, a respected member of the community. I’m so proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.”

She insisted on clearing the dishes and cleaning up Marston’s kitchen. She returned to the living room and said, “You know I live nearby. I’ll just walk home, it’s such a warm evening. Please promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. And let me know how things work out at Port Chicago. As much as the Navy lets you tell me, of course.”

He stood on his lawn and watched until she disappeared. He returned to his house and filled another snifter of brandy, then sipped until it was gone. The summer evening was long and he was in agony by the time full darkness descended. Then he left the house and drove to the marina. He parked, disrobed at the water’s edge and slipped into the Bay.

* * *

Monday morning he rose early and drove to Port Chicago. The naval base consisted mainly of warehouses and barracks. A railroad spur ran onto a pier that extended into the Bay. Even at this early hour he could see crews of coloured stevedores in Navy fatigues working to move munitions from railroad cars to the hold of a ship moored to the side of the pier. The stevedores were supervised by white men in officers’ uniforms.

A guard had demanded to see Marston’s identification and the telegram summoning him to the base. Once satisfied, the guard directed Marston to the headquarters building, a wood-frame structure badly in need of fresh paint. Once inside he was escorted by a smartly uniformed WAVE into the commander’s office.

Captain Kinne looked as if he had stepped out of bandbox. Every crease in his uniform was knife-sharp, every button glistened.

Marston of course wore civilian garb, the academic uniform of tweed jacket, flannel slacks and button-down shirt. He had replaced his customary striped necktie with a scarf that concealed his gill-slits and added a pair of oversized dark glasses. He stood in front of Captain Kinne’s desk wondering whether he was expected to salute or shake hands. The WAVE introduced him and Kinne looked up at him. “You’re Marston, eh?”

He said, “I am.”

“All right, I just wanted to get a look at you. Tell a lot about a man with one look. You’ll do. What happened to your hands, Marston? Some kind of tropical disease? Jungle rot?”

Marston started to answer but Kinne went on.

“Jaspers,” he addressed the WAVE, “take Mr. Marston down the hall. Give him to Keeler.” He turned back to Marston and nodded curtly. “Go with Jaspers. Keeler will tell you what to do. Thanks for coming.”

The WAVE, obviously Jaspers, led Marston to another office. She halted and knocked at the door, then turned the knob and opened the door a few inches. “Mr. Marston is here, sir.”