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  Because she was crying the streets blurred, but she knew she could trust her feet to lead her to Saint Joseph’s. She felt strange passing over the church threshold: she had always pitied women who frequented churches when there was no scheduled service. She knelt uncertainly in a back pew, head bowed and eyes closed. She did not know if there was a saint of war. She seemed to remember a saint for soldiers but could not remember his name. She scanned the church interior until her eyes fell on a small statue of Sebastian. She remembered Father O’Brian once describing Saint Sebastian’s days as a soldier. The thought that Sebastian, like Henry, had been neither large nor powerfully built was only briefly heartening. Sebastian, after all, had been pierced to death by arrows. Doing her best to overlook the saint’s dire end, Lydia tendered a brief prayer to Sebastian in her husband’s name.

  Father O’Brian recalls that saints were never Liddie Kilkenny’s strong suit. The primary patron saint of soldiers is Saint George.

  It was a cold day but clear. On quitting the church she walked east to the Charles. A group of girls in modest uniforms walked the path along the river’s edge, led by a nun encouraging them to take in the brisk air. Lydia watched the progress of a pleasure boat filled with women and children, many of whom waved as they passed. Behind the ferry, a scull stroked its way southward. Before coming to the West end she had never seen such boats. The harbor was too rough for them. She did not like sculls—they reminded her of D Street water striders, which laid claim to the backyard laundry basin after a good rain.

  To further postpone her return home she decided to visit the Bowdoin. As she hopped the Cambridge trolley she smiled bitterly to think of the money she was wasting—a nickel for coffee, a nickel for the streetcar, and now a nickel for the matinee—all weekend luxuries and it was only Monday. She had never attended a picture on a weekday afternoon. She blushed to think of the breakfast things she had left in the parlor. One of the worst things her mother could say about a woman was that she kept an unclean home.

  As manager of the Bowdoin for forty years, Mr. Chester Crowley cannot imagine how anyone could conflate the Imperial’s vulgar red curtain with the Bowdoin’s regal violet one.

  Lydia liked the Bowdoin because it reminded her of the Imperial: both had high, gold ceilings illuminated with electric stars; both commanded luxurious red curtains fringed with gold tassel, which whisked away with an impressive whoosh as the lights dimmed; and both were redolent of roasted peanuts. Accustomed as she was to weekend crowds, Lydia felt a flush of excitement at finding the theater only partially filled. She could choose practically any seat she liked. This freedom was magnified by Henry’s absence. He favored the balcony: any closer and the looming shapes of the screen actors gave him headaches. Without even a glance to the balcony stairs, she strode to the theater’s front rows. A few seats were occupied by women with young children, old ladies—Lydia had never thought to wonder where they went after Mass—and a smattering of men of various ages. Lydia doubted that any proper sort of man would allow himself to be seen inside a movie theater in the middle of the day and made sure to give these loafers a wide berth.

  A large flag, which hung down the center of the curtain, remained in place once the curtains had been pulled aside, and Lydia wondered if she would be expected to watch the movie against a background of stars and stripes. When the piano man asked them to rise for “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the theater stood like this was the most customary thing in the world, as though flags in theaters were commonplace and movies had always begun with a recitation of patriotic tunes and not with songs like “Me and My Girl,” or “Dancing on a Cloud.” The flag remained in place for “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and “America the Beautiful,” making it difficult for Lydia to read the projected lyrics, and so she hummed, hoping no one would think less of her for it. It ought to have been perfectly acceptable to sit back down, but no one reclaimed their seat. It felt silly to remain standing, but Lydia was not sure whether her embarrassment stemmed from being influenced by the others or because it seemed that only she had not known that the rules had changed. Thankfully the flag rose high into the rafters after the songs finished, and people resumed their seats, allowing her an uncompromised view of the first two-reeler and the feature that followed.

  As war had just been declared, Mr. Crowley is certain the Bowdoin’s feature that day was of some other type.

  Mr. Fairbanks adds that he did not appear in any war pictures in 1917. He suspects the young woman is remembering a comedy called A Modern Musketeer.

  The feature turned out to be a war picture. Lydia could not watch the screen soldiers for more than a few seconds before each one changed into Henry. Soon the screen became filled with drably uniformed Henrys clutching guns and staring into the distance, and when even Douglas Fairbanks himself acquired her husband’s pale features she knew she had to leave. From the lobby she could hear the muted strains of the piano, which now sounded like it was being played by a ghost.

  Back on the street she remembered that she had not returned for the morning delivery. In her prolonged absence the afternoon correspondence had certainly arrived as well. This was the first time since Wickett’s beginning that she had not collected the mail promptly, a realization that transformed the day’s distress into panic. She began to run.

  At the sight of the Somerset, she pictured the flat with utter clarity: the dirty breakfast dishes in the parlor, the unswept floors, the unmade bed with Henry’s note still pinned to the pillow. She would walk straight to the bedroom to pack whatever bare essentials would be necessary for a night’s stay on D Street. Afterward she could return to the flat with her mother or Michael to collect any additional things. When Henry returned from the war—if Henry returned from the war—he would have to come across the bridge to get her.

  To avoid facing the darkness, she reached her arm along the wall just inside the front door until she found the switch and with a relieved sigh depressed it. Though she had meant to go straight to the bedroom, she realized she could not quit an apartment that contained dirty dishes. To combat the surrounding silence she began to hum. This, at least, would do until she reached the kitchen, where the business of dishwashing would allay her panic long enough to allow her to finish the job.

  Nearing the parlor and humming “America the Beautiful” under her breath—the song had been repeating mercilessly inside her head ever since she had quit the Bowdoin—she felt that something was not quite right. Then she saw it: a dark shape on the divan. Her stomach leapt into her throat. She thrust her arm into the sitting room and began fumbling for the light, but before she could manage the switch, the shape rose from its chair. She shrieked and fell backward. The shape rushed at her into the light.

  “Liddie—” the shape snuffled. “Liddie.” It fell to its knees and buried its head in her dress. “They wouldn’t take me,” Henry sobbed into her skirt, his shoulders quaking. “They took one look and sent me home.”

  TELLS OF MORAL PERIL TO SOLDIERS

  Capt. Ralph M. Harrison, marshal of the provost guard, with headquarters in the South armory, called the attention of the Twentieth Century Club yesterday to the large number of young girls who accost soldiers and sailors in Boston, indicating the corner of Tremont and Boylston streets as “the worst place” and “between 11 and 12 p.m.” as “the worst time.”

  “I have referred before to this place,” he added, “as ‘the happy hunting ground’ because everybody seems to be so industrious down there.”

  The speaker told of being himself accosted, and cited experiences of the same kind by officers and men of the guard.

  “I was appalled,” he went on to say, “at the huge number of young girls for whom the uniform seems to have a particular attraction. I have seen in Tremont and Boylston street and on the Common soldiers and sailors passing a couple of these little girls and have heard the girls say, ‘Hello! Why in such a hurry?’

  “I have given orders to immediately arrest any soldier or sailo
r who addresses or endeavors to approach any girl in the street, but it is impossible for the guard to do the same with the young girls and women who accost the soldiers and sailors. As far as the men from Boston are concerned I think it is of primary importance for the people of Boston to correct this.”

  Ladies and gentlemen, we live in miraculous times. Thanks to advances in modern medicine, we no longer live in fear of typhus, smallpox, or yellow fever, diseases which only a generation ago wielded deadly power over young and old. A generation ago, one of every four children died before their second birthday. Now, with the help of such innovations as pasteurization, our children are thriving in numbers as never before.

  But ladies and gentlemen, we find ourselves faced with a new and even deadlier scourge, a scourge that threatens not only our lives but our country, and that is the scourge of War. As typhus is a disease of the body, so War is a disease of nations. Like any disease, it is spread by a germ. It is no accident that those same four letters spell the name of our enemy, ladies and gentlemen. Germany. Mile by mile, the Germ-man line has been snaking its way westward, an infection of continental proportions. Many a noble soldier has fallen and many still fight in their attempt to keep this infection at bay.

  The good men and women of Europe have turned to us for help in defeating this deadly scourge and we have answered their call. We have done so not only because it is right, but because it is crucial. This disease is not limited to Europe, ladies and gentlemen. This disease could easily cast its shadow across the Atlantic to reach our very shores. But sending our soldiers is not enough. It is up to you, ladies and gentlemen, to provide the force for an American vaccine against Germany. Only by putting our national wealth in the service of this great cause can we make it strong.

  It is vital that you support the Liberty Loan. It is our duty as a healthy, modern nation to hurry to the War Front with every resource that our two hundred and fifty billion in national wealth can command. We need every cent of these billions not only to stave off further infection, but to reclaim the health of Europe and to defeat the Germ-man. Kaiser, once and for all. Only if we do our duty, ladies and gentlemen, and support the Liberty Loan, can the disease of War be banished forever into the history books. Buy bonds now so that in the future you can say that you did your part to render the dread disease of War obsolete.

  THE QD SODA WALKING TOUR

  Third Stop: Scollay Square

  Now turn your attention to City Hall Plaza and Government Center. As you walk the stately brick plaza, try to imagine you are walking instead on a brightly lit stage, surrounded by beautiful young performers. It’s not as big a stretch as you might think: what is now City Hall Plaza was once part of Scollay Square, an area chockablock with theaters featuring everything from vaudeville to movies to burlesque shows to boxing. And prime among these entertainments was the QD Follies.

  QD Soda became a national sensation thanks, in large part, to the first “QD Cutie,” Sara Lampe, who also became the first Mrs. Quentin Driscoll and whose beautiful voice turned “I’m Just a QD Cutie” into a national hit. In 1926, with Sara pregnant, Quentin picked for his next “Cutie” a young singer from Newton named—Cara Blaine. It is often forgotten that one of our most beloved Hollywood stars got her start as the spokesmodel for one of our most beloved soft drinks!

  In 1931—the year of the tragic boating accident that killed Sara and the couple’s young son, Ralph—a heartbroken Quentin Driscoll lowered the curtain on the QD Follies. Though this spelled the sad end of the QD Cutie, it marked the beginning of a new era in entertainment. Stars from Clyde Hanley to George Kent got their start on QD Comedy Hour, one of the nation’s most popular and long-running radio variety programs. In 1949 the QD Comedy Hour made a brief foray into television, but when the show’s longtime host, Preston “Hewey” Hughes, died of a sudden heart attack during a live broadcast, the show was unable to survive him.

  By the 1960s, the Scollay’s heyday was long past and the area was rife with drugs and crime. In a sweeping attempt to revitalize the area, the Boston Redevelopment Authority razed Scollay Square to make way for the very complex in which you now stand. Though the QD Follies is just a memory, the soda it celebrated lives on.

  Ralph Finnister

  QD Soda Headquarters

  162 B Street

  Boston, MA 02127

  March 2, 1993

  The Honorable Mayor Raymond Flynn

  Mayor’s Office

  1 City Hall Plaza

  Boston, MA 02201

  Dear Mayor Flynn:

  Boston’s history represents a substantial asset for its tourists as well as its citizenry. This year marks the 75th Anniversary of QD Soda, which was invented in Boston by a Boston native in 1918 and is still manufactured on South Bostons B Street, in a historic building that has remained practically unchanged since it was first built. In this Jubilee year, we strive to honor seventy-five years of faithful service by renaming B Street in its honor. “QD Street” would join the esteemed honor guard of corporate thoroughfares named for native products of Beantown.

  We will be celebrating our 75th Anniversary this summer. May we count on you to lead a street renaming ceremony to be added to QD Soda’s exciting roster of Jubilee events? Thank you in advance for your consideration. Please enjoy this free case of QD Soda compliments of myself.

  Sincerely,

  Ralph Finnister

  President and CEO

  QD Soda

  Hours would pass with no sign Lydia lived in a country at war. War had not altered the clang of the alarm clock, nor the difficulty of brushing out her hair, nor the way the stove burner burst into blue flame beneath the tea kettle. There were still dishes to clean and floors to mop and dusting to be done. After a year of war it seemed the air ought to have grown thicker or acquired a different smell; water ought to have taken longer to boil and made dirt and dust more difficult to banish from beneath furniture or inside corners. She was grateful for Wheatless Mondays, Meatless Tuesdays, and Porkless Saturdays: these, at least, affirmed the change in the world.

  Outside the flat, the war’s progress was more readily apparent. With her Liberty Bond button affixed to her coat she felt that the city was filled with friends—strangers would nod and smile, pointing meaningfully to their own buttons as they passed. Billboards reminded her to conserve electricity and coal; street corner paperboys hawked the news as though they were making and not just reading the headlines. She was most fond of the changes the war had wrought on Scollay Square, where the profusion of flags adorning the theaters and streetcars lent the place a carnival atmosphere even in midday. Beginning in the afternoon and carrying into the evening, Scollay would fill with uniformed men, their crisp haircuts and brass voices jumping the wattage of the marquee lights. Scollay embraced these men with the smell of its roasted peanuts and the bravado of its vaudeville hucksters, with cobbles worn flat and with posters promising never-before-seen wonders. These men would crowd before the stage door to the Old Howard to catch a glimpse of one of Billy Watsons Orientals. They would fidget in line at Joe and Nemo’s where a quarter and their uniform would buy them two victory dogs, a coffee, and a slice of apple pie. While Lydia would never have allowed herself to accompany these bright-eyed boys who smelled of sweat and shoe polish and cheap cologne, her stomach fluttered at their proffered invitations; the Sunday roto and the newsreels teemed with pictures of soldiers in training and boarding ships and marching in formation. Being addressed by such men was the closest she had come to meeting movie stars. Some girls asked for autographs but Lydia thought this common. She was content merely to smile in their direction.

  Though she is correct on every other count, Henry interjects that his white pushpins represented the British, not the Belgians. He was never able to disabuse his wife of the notion that Belgium possessed an army.

  Having been denied his own trip overseas, Henry purchased a four-foot-by-three-foot map of the war zones, upon which he charted troop movements with c
olored pushpins. Black pushpins represented the German soldiers, red the French and English, white the Belgian, and blue the American Expeditionary Forces. Until beholding Henry’s map, Lydia’s conception of the war had been provincial. She had not appreciated the war’s breadth and scope, the brute numbers of men involved—men fighting not only in Europe, but in Arabia and Palestine, places as seemingly distant as the moon itself!

  In the evening Lydia would read aloud the pertinent articles from the afternoon edition while Henry adjusted his pushpins accordingly, moving his troops east or west, north or south, to reflect the changing military landscape. Within weeks of its purchase the map became so riddled with holes that its pockmarked terrain seemed to her a fair approximation of the battlefields she and Henry projected on it nightly. Sitting with Henry, her voice enunciating the strange place names of European towns while her husband’s hands took in the width and breadth of a continent, the newspaper stories no longer felt distant or irrelevant. The war felt thrillingly close.

  War had little effect on sales of Wickett’s Remedy, which continued to provide a meager income and a rich supply of pen pals. When one of Henry’s newest correspondents proposed himself as a business partner, Lydia assumed Henry would rid himself of at least one epistolary freeloader, but to her shock he expressed interest in the notion. Apparently this Quentin Driscoll fellow was taken with the flavor of Wickett’s and thought it would hold its own on pharmacy shelves. In exchange for permission to be Wickett’s exclusive store representative, he would share half his profits.