Wickett's Remedy Page 8

  Lydia was against it. Wickett’s, she reminded Henry, was not a medicine. But Henry countered that if Wickett’s was sold in pharmacies, a purchaser needed only to send him their receipt in order to receive a letter. If the fellow was right about Wickett’s chances in the pharmacy, he coaxed, this might be the opportunity they had been waiting for. Lydia was skeptical, but she could not bring herself to oppose the prospect of Henry’s liberation from the import trade. She agreed they could give Quentin Driscoll a try.

  Meanwhile, Henry continued to work for his father and, in lieu of frontline reporting, funneled his thwarted ambition into his Wickett’s correspondence. “Stay Healthy for the Boys” became his motto, which he penned in red ink across the back of each sealed envelope. He attributed April’s marked increase in business to his new approach, but Lydia reasoned the more likely cause was the appearance in Boston of an unseasonable flu. She was loathe to confess her suspicion to Henry as she did not wish to dampen his fire: since he had been refused a uniform, his letters and their subsequent recitations had taken on a fierce energy whose spirit recalled the long-lost author of her love letters.

  We can almost feel the quickening of Henry’s heart as he waited for his wife to appear. In all his memories of Lydia, including that of their wedding day, she only ever appears in the blue linen dress that so perfectly matched her eyes.

  Henry’s renewed pride in his missives was evinced by his reading manner. Calling Lydia to the settee, he would mount a straight-backed chair and declaim to her as if she were a crowd of hundreds. His body would sway, his free arm would gesticulate as though conducting an orchestra—but at the eye of this oratorical storm, the hand holding the letter would remain perfectly still. Lydia found her husband’s speeches as rousing as the ones she heard in Adams Square and began dressing for his performances, each evening after dinner changing into his favorite blue tea gown. Henry, in kind, adopted a naval cap he had found in an empty seat at the Olympia after a screening of Shoulder Arms. Lydia assured Henry the hat became him when in truth it was slightly large for his head and occasionally flew off when his recitations became fervent—but while the hat remained in place Lydia enjoyed the illusion she was being addressed by a sailor.

  “We each one of us embody our own vital American Expeditionary Force!” Henry declaimed. “An Army resides in our muscles, a Navy in our blood, and an Air Service in our lungs. As the health of Europe depends upon the efforts of the national A.E.E, so too does the health of our country depend upon the efforts of our internal A.E.E We must make it our personal duty to rally this force to action with no less strength and courage than if we were each General Pershing himself!”

  He spoke with such passion that Lydia could practically feel the power of the country pounding through her blood, as if miniature American soldiers were fighting inside her on her behalf; so when Henry caught a cold, Lydia felt as violated as though the Hun had invaded Boston itself.

  It seemed at first that the cold would be defeated by no stronger salvos than a ready handkerchief, copious amounts of honeyed tea, and regular doses of Remedy, which Lydia insisted on administering for the sake of good form. When the cold lingered and Henry acquired a wet, deep cough she suggested a day of bed rest, which he rejected out of hand, explaining he had already spent far too much of his life in bed. By the next day his pallor had increased and it was clear he had a fever, but he insisted on going to work. Only when her husband returned early that afternoon, shivering like it was winter and not spring, did he agree to return to bed. Henry had told her once—in a voice so casual it was clear he thought it commonplace—that as a boy he had slept alone. A childhood in which bedrooms were not shared seemed dreadful—never in Lydia’s life had she been forced to endure a night shut away from the rhythm of another’s breathing. That afternoon she brought a chair into their bedroom: there was no reason not to keep Henry company as she balanced the books.

  The next morning his cough was worse and he provided no resistance to staying in bed, though he asked Lydia to fetch a few letters from his desk so that he might do some small bit of work. She spent the morning ferrying pots of steaming water down the long, narrow hallway from the kitchen to the bedroom so that he could inhale the vapors, as overnight his chest had become worse. She asked if she ought to fetch a doctor but he demurred.

  “I’m enough of a doctor to know I have the flu,” he diagnosed. “A doctor would merely feel my pulse, prescribe bed rest, and charge some ungodly sum for the privilege of his prescription.” He smiled at her. “You are taking excellent care of me. I already sense I shall be improved by supper.”

  That evening his fever rose. Chills caused his hand to shake too much to handle a spoon and so she fed him soup as he lay propped in bed. Never before had a mouth seemed so vulnerable. Henry’s lips were thin and delicate, the pale pink hue found along the inner curve of a seashell. Holding the spoon to his mouth Lydia became shy. The gesture was as intimate as anything they had done together in the dark.

  “Thank you,” he wheezed as she fed him, his eyes gazing into her own. “Thank you.” She felt compelled to make him stop—he was thanking her after every spoonful of broth. When he could eat no more she returned to the kitchen to prepare a poultice of onion and black pepper. Fetching onions from the larder summoned the sharp, intrusive smell of the poultice from the stores of her memory. She associated the scent with darkness and the sound of her mother’s humming. She would have to keep the windows open for a day to erase its pungence.

  Henry yearned to tell Lydia of his love, but feared he sounded and looked too frightful to do justice to the sentiment. His whispers among Us seek belated release for his ardor.

  When she sat beside Henry with the poultice she thought at first he had turned his head to ward off the odor. Then she saw he was blushing. She often had helped James and John with their clothes when their fingers had been too small to manage buttons, but until now she had never undressed her husband. She averted her eyes as she undid the buttons of his pajamas. His chest was not as broad as Da’s or Michael’s, but it was a man’s chest all the same.

  “This will help clear your lungs,” she stammered. To calm her mind she recalled all the poultices her mother had applied through the years. Her mind quieted and Henry turned toward her.

  “What’s that you’re humming?” he whispered.

  “Am I humming?” she asked.

  He nodded and hummed a few notes back to her.

  She smiled. “It’s something my mother used to hum when one of us had taken ill. It helped to cancel out the smell.”

  Cora Kilkenny has no recollection of this tune. She suspects it was her daughter’s own.

  “What’s it called?” he asked.

  She hummed a few more notes. “I’m not truly sure. Ma’s always singing or humming something. I suppose it’s called ‘The Poultice Song.’”

  “The Poultice Song,” he whispered, smiling, and closed his eyes. His breathing eased. She wanted to sleep pressed against him but he was too hot, so she settled for her hand resting on his shoulder.

  Very early the next morning she was awakened by a terrible rasping sound. Henry’s eyes were wide with exertion as he tried to breathe, his mouth gaping, his lips tinged blue.

  “Henry, darling, I’m calling an ambulance!” she shrieked, to which he nodded, blinking back tears. She kissed his forehead and rushed downstairs to the Somerset’s telephone. The lobby was deserted save for the night deskman. Though he stared rudely, he assured her he would send up the ambulance men as soon as they arrived.

  Mrs. Wickett was wearing only a nightgown and no bra of any sort! It was all Walter Darrow could do to keep his eyes on her face.

  Silence had wrapped the building in a thick, choking gauze; Lydia wanted to cry out but the still air had drawn the moisture from her throat. As she returned upstairs, the sound of her feet inside the stairwell was as loud as an alarm, but when she regained the fourth floor, the hallway remained quiet, its every door closed exce
pt her own. She felt as if she and Henry were the only living creatures in Boston.

  Henry recalls a soft voice, but not the words it spoke. At first the voice sounded like his wife’s, but it soon became a chorus of whispers.

  When she entered their bedroom, she was grateful to see he had returned to sleep. She whispered that an ambulance was on its way and thought she saw him nod. She held his hand while they waited, and stroked his fingers. She whispered of the Carney clinic, where she had once been taken after stepping barefoot on a broken bottle at Castle Island. The nuns had whispered soothingly as the doctor lifted the dark emerald glass from the pale pillow of her instep, which was then stitched up like a sock in need of darning. She promised to show him the scar as soon as he was better—he had never seen the bottoms of her feet.

  Years seemed to pass in the time they waited for help to come, Lydia gazing at Henry’s hand and stroking his fingers as she hummed something else of her mother’s, not the Poultice Song but a tune for when bad dreams had sent her scrambling awake. Her husband’s hand was beautiful, with a wide palm and long, tapering fingers. She remembered his palms being unshaped by any sort of work but this was no longer the case: on his writing hand—just beside the top knuckle of the left middle finger—was a single callus. She traced the callus with her fingertips, then pressed it softly to her lips. She gently rubbed her face against the top part of his hand, allowing the thin, dark hairs there to stroke her cheek. By pressing only slightly harder she could feel the delicate lattice of his bones against her skin. She admired his fingernails with their well-formed half-moons. She held Henry’s hand like he was a child she did not want to lose in a crowd. She clutched his hand until the ambulance men arrived with their white canvas stretcher and informed her that her husband was dead.

  THE AMERICAN EAGLE’S SCREAMING DEFY TO POTSDAM

  Just what every red-blooded American feels in the depths of his or her heart; what we know has happened and what we fervently hope the future holds out for the Kaiser and his lust-mad legions, has been vigorously produced in what has already been pronounced the greatest photoplay sensation ever offered America’s legions.

  To Hell with the Kaiser

  A bold, daring title, because it is a bold, daring picture, and just as the title arouses you, so will the picture arouse you to a realization of the contemptible fiends we are fighting. There can be no Slacker blood in your veins when you have witnessed “To Hell with the Kaiser.”

  All This Week at the Scollay Square Olympia

  Let’s not bother with the streetcar; we’re better off walking, leastways ’til we get to Hanover.

  Boy it’s packed! I never seen it so crowded, excepting maybe the last time we was here. It’s a wonder anyone gets anywhere with all these people.

  Y’know Lester actually met his girl here.

  The brunette?

  The streetcar she was sittin’ in was stopped in traffic, so he just walked beside it and introduced himself. Once he showed what a nice fella he was, she stepped right off the car and went with him.

  That’s a neat trick.

  Course he was wearing his uniform at the time.

  Lucky son of a gun. If they don’t call me up soon I’m gonna go down to Lafayette Mall myself no matter what my ma says.

  Is that yours?

  No, mine had lighter hair.

  You sure?

  I think so. It’s so hard to tell. They all look alike in those uniforms.

  He said to meet him here?

  By the statue.

  And he’s bringing a friend?

  I told you already.

  He wasn’t too fresh? I can’t stand a fellow who’s too fresh.

  He was nice. He was from Ohio.

  Ohio! Well then.

  He wants me to write when he ships out.

  Will you?

  Oh I’d write just about any fellow who asked. I wouldn’t even have to like him that much.

  Hello fellas!

  Bentley? Jeez, Frankie, what the devil are you doin’ here? Fitzy’ll have your hide!

  Not if he don’t know—I waited until he started out himself before I quit the deck. As long as I get back in time he won’t be the wiser. I wasn’t about to let him rob me of my last night!

  Who’d you get to cover for you, Frankie?

  I told Culver I’d give him half a week’s pay if he’d take my sentry duty. He’s not shipping out yet so he don’t care so much about losing a night on the town.

  You ain’t gonna actually pay him, are you?

  Sure I am! Way I see it, it’s a fair price for one last breath of freedom.

  Well for that kind of dough we’d better make sure you have a real time of it!

  It’s a very special show tonight, ladies and gents! The delightful Miss Mary Blake with her red, white, and blue accordion will be singing a medley of popular favorites including “My Belgian Rose,” “My Baby Boy,” and “Minnie Shimmie for Me,” followed by Mr. Hubie Lowe, Scollay’s favorite comedian, and then, of course, the enchanting Lonna Bay, who will astound and inspire you with her grace and beauty. Step right in, gents. This is what you came for!

  Belgian Rose, my drooping Belgian Rose

  For ev’ry hour of sorrow you’ve had,

  You’ll have a year in which to be glad,

  You were not born in vain,

  For you will bloom again,

  And tho’ they’ve taken all your sunshine and dew,

  We’ll make an American Beauty of you,

  And you will find repose over here, my Belgian Rose!

  What time is it?

  Time fer another round!

  I dunno if that’s such a good idea, Frankie.

  Aw, don’t be such a wet blanket. We got th’ whole night ahead of us!

  Bentley’s right. Another round! To tonight!

  Looks more like morning to me.

  Would you can it already, Neddo? We got serious drinkin to do.

  Poor Johnny’s heart went pitty pitty pat,

  Somewhere in sunny France.

  He met a girl by chance with ze naughty naughty glance,

  She looked just like a kitty kitty cat,

  She loved to dance and play,

  Tho’ he learned no French when he left the trench,

  He knew well enough to say:

  Oui Oui Marie, will you do zis for me,

  Oui Oui Marie, then I’ll do zat for you,

  Oui Oui Marie,

  Oui Oui Marie!

  Where’d those girls go?

  There’s some right there.

  Not that kind. The ones that was with us before.

  Aw, they went home hours ago, don’t ya remember?

  You had the one promisin’ to write.

  Did she kiss me?

  Naw, she weren’t like that. If yer wantin’ that yer better off with those girls over there.

  I don’t got enough scratch left fer that kind of girl.

  Maybe between us we got enough.

  Forget it. We don’t got time anyhow. We better get some coffee, we gotta be goin’ soon.

  But I wanna piece of somethin’ sweet.

  Then put some sugar in yer joe, cause that’s the closest yer gettin’ tonight.

  Hasten son, fling the window wide,

  Let me kiss the staff our flag hangs from

  And salute the Stars and Stripes with pride,

  For God be praised “The Americans come!”

  Bentley, wake up!

  ’Sno use. He’s out.

  How’re we gonna git him back?

  Could carry ’im.

  Us carry Frankie? What are ya, drunk? He’s too heavy!

  But we ain’t got enough dough for a cab.

  I say leave ’im. Lean ’im ’gainst this statue.

  But if Frankie don’t show, that’s derilision of duty.

  Fitzy’ll kill ’im fer sure.

  Aw, he’ll make it back. Bentley kin take care ’f himself.

  I don’t know, fellas— />
  C’mon! Bentley’s bein’ a real pain in the neck passin’ out like this. We tole ’im t’ take it easy but did ’e listen? Nope. He did not.

  ’Sides, if we tried t’ carry ’im back we’d get in plenny trouble ourselves, either bein late or gettin’ seen with ’im. ’Ts our patrialic duty t’ ship out tomorrow no madder wha’. Otherwise we’re all of us in derilision, and what’s th’ good o’ that?

  Well, Joey, you put it like that I s’pose I can’t argue.

  Easy now. There.

  Don’ ’e look sweet?

  Y’sure Bentley’ll be okay?

  Look, he’s sleepin’ it off unner the protection of—whoozzat? I can’t see straight.

  Says here, “John Winthrop, Guvnor Massachusetts, 1629.”

  See? Frankie’ll be fine. He’s got the guvnor hisself lookin’ after him.

  THE QDISPATCH

  VOLUME 9, ISSUE 3 MAY 1991

  QD and Me:

  A Sodaman’s Journey By Ralph Finnister

  Chapter 1 Water Meets Flavor

  We never know what the day holds. On one day, we are created—on another, we expire. In between, we flow or we float according to our natures—and if we are lucky, we mix with something that changes us for the better. I am a Sodaman. I see the world through a Sodaman’s eyes.

  I was sixteen when I started working at QD Soda. Few boys know what they want out of life at that age, and if someone had asked me I would have said I wanted to be Hewey Hughes, the host of the QD Radio Comedy Hour. I only came to QD Headquarters on account of that show, but after I was hired I learned it was broadcast from somewhere else. By then, of course, it was too late. I was already a mailroom clerk.

  To see me then was not to see the future president of QD Soda. By the time Quentin Driscoll was sixteen, he was an apprentice at a soda counter and well on his way to fulfilling his life’s ambition—but as for me, I was content to sort envelopes and daydream.