The note Carlotta Agnozzi remembers read:
Alone in her mother’s kitchen, Lydia drafted twenty identical notes on the backs of twenty unused Remedy labels. After the fifth note her hand no longer shook; after the tenth she was no longer crying; and by the eighteenth she was not thinking of the words at all. Each unopened letter was sealed with one of Lydia’s notes into a new envelope addressed to its original sender. As she worked, she trained her eyes on the return addresses in the upper left-hand corners to spare herself the recurrent shock of seeing Henry’s name.
Dear Customer, I regret to inform you of my husband’s untimely death. As I could never take his place, this will be our last exchange, but I hope that my husband and his Remedy will live on in your heart. Sincerely, Mrs. Henry Wickett
Carlotta’s condolence card was returned by the postmaster.
She had utterly forgotten about Henry’s business partner until she spotted an envelope from Mr. Driscoll. Though she would have preferred to treat Mr. Driscoll’s letter no differently than the others, she slit the envelope open. She generally opened an envelope along its length, but she found herself opening this one along its width. Only as she withdrew the letter from this smaller opening did she recognize it as Henry’s habit. Mr. Driscoll’s writing was compact and clear, reminding her of a department store circular. Henry had missed their monthly meeting. Mr. Driscoll hoped all was well and suggested that Henry propose an alternate date.
She looked back over the letter. On the day of his scheduled meeting with Mr. Driscoll, Henry had been almost three weeks dead. Lydia wondered if such a dire possibility had entered Mr. Driscoll’s thoughts as he had waited. She wondered if Mr. Driscoll had been outdoors or indoors, if he had read to pass the time, how long he had waited before giving up, and if aggravation or worry had won the day. She could not tolerate the notion that Henry might have been a cause for annoyance after death had robbed him of the ability to defend or redeem himself. She wrote to Mr. Driscoll and proposed a meeting.
She arranged to meet him at a restaurant she knew from her Gilchrist days but had never patronized, which was therefore safe from old memories. She did not know if arriving early would give her the chance to collect herself or if anticipation might cause her undoing, but because the thought of Mr. Driscoll being kept waiting a second time was unbearable, she arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes in advance of the agreed-upon time.
Of her nice dresses, only two were not linked to specific memories of Henry. Of those, only one was appropriate for spring, which simplified the issue of her costume, a convenience that felt like a godsend.
Having only ever admired its elegant, if aging, exterior in her Gilchrist days, Lydia was surprised to discover the restaurant she had chosen was a favorite of clerks. They sat on short-legged stools aligned before a narrow counter and at small, close-set tables beneath ceiling fans that wobbled on disreputable axes. They wore interchangeable dark suits several seasons old, their collars softened by sweat. Their ties, having loosened over the course of the morning, had not been reknotted and now hung broken below the knobs of their Adam’s apples. Despite the novelty of her gender and the misplaced prosperity of her West end dress, not one gave Lydia a second glance. This caused her to wonder, not for the first time, if grief exuded an odor as undetectable to its sufferer as the tang of one’s own body, a smell that whether acrid or cloying kept others away.
Seemingly unnoticed, Lydia selected a table in the far corner—the only one not within range of a fan’s erratic trajectory. She turned her chair to face the door. Henry had only ever described his business partner as a youngish “go-getter,” and she worried she would not recognize him, but at precisely the scheduled time, a man entered the restaurant’s door wearing the prearranged yellow carnation in his lapel and projecting an air of confidence absent from the hunched men hurriedly ingesting the daily special.
Of Henry’s age, though taller and more robust, Mr. Driscoll’s features connoted a specifically non-patrician strain of good breeding. In his pressed suit and starched collar, Mr. Driscoll looked every inch the young businessman, but he had the broad hands and handsome brow of a foreman or tradesman. Something about Driscoll’s face was distinctly and uniquely American—a melding of features suggestive of farflung forebears, united through the auspices of immigration. Lydia did not need to speak to Mr. Driscoll to understand why Henry had accepted him as his business partner: optimism was as natural to him as breath.
“Mrs. Wickett,” he said, extending his hand. “I was shocked by the news. Please accept my condolences. I knew that something had to be wrong when Henry missed our meeting, but I never suspected—” Mr. Driscoll shook his head.
Lydia’s memory is Our sole benchmark of this event. Like many who join Us after a long old age, Mr. Driscoll’s recollections are clouded beyond comprehension.
“Thank you,” she answered as she stood to shake his hand. She was impressed by the firmness of his grip. In her experience a fellow’s handshake underwent a marked dilution when its recipient was wearing a dress. “I’m sorry not to have informed you earlier or invited you to the funeral,” she apologized. “My husband’s death was completely unexpected and to be honest, I’d forgotten your existence until I saw your name on that letter.”
Mr. Driscoll sat opposite her. She was gratified the clerks had taken no more notice of his entrance than her own: it meant that grief was not to blame. “There’s no need to apologize,” Mr. Driscoll assured her. “I’m just glad my letter reached the post office before you did. I hope it doesn’t sound too strange, but I’m pleased to meet you. Henry said he was the voice of Wickett’s but that you were its body and soul. I’d hoped we’d meet one day—but not like this.”
She offered Mr. Driscoll a conciliatory smile. “I don’t know if Henry told you, but I was against the idea of him taking you on. I came up with the Remedy to go with my husband’s letters, not to sell alone.”
“Oh, I know, Mrs. Wickett,” Mr. Driscoll answered. “Henry said the same thing. I’m awfully grateful to the two of you for taking me on. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a real humdinger of a tonic, a real standout product. I used to think I wanted to own my own drugstore, but one taste of Wickett’s changed all that. I’m just certain it’s destined for greatness. One day Wickett’s Remedy will be in drugstores all across New England!”
Mr. Driscoll’s conviction was contagious. Lydia found herself picturing shelves filled with familiar blue labels.
“And how is the Remedy doing so far, Mr. Driscoll?” she asked. Residual electricity from Driscoll’s enthusiasm charged the air around their table. Lydia could sense their waiter trying to place its source as he took their orders. She wondered if the waiter supposed that she and Driscoll were lovers, and immediately felt terrible for the thought.
“Mrs. Wickett,” Mr. Driscoll continued once the waiter had left. “I wish I had a fistful of greenbacks to hand over, but I’m afraid I don’t. At least, not yet.” He handed her an envelope of assorted change. “As you may know, the agreement is that in exchange for having been licensed the recipe I give fifty percent of everything I sell, after expenses. Right now I’ve got Wickett’s Remedy in three pharmacies. I’m hoping that once people develop a taste for it, they’ll start coming back.”
“If you’re going to sell something just because it tastes good,” Lydia mused aloud, “I wonder if you ought to carbonate it and call it a soda instead.”
Save for one man obstinately sopping every last drop of beef broth with the butt end of his bread, theirs was the only table still occupied. At the counter, the cook consulted with a man studying a racing form. Above the grill, a flecked strip of flypaper pulsed in time with the irregular draughts from the ceiling fans.
The simultaneous specificity and opacity of memory is Our constant taunt. Lydia recalls Mr. Driscoll’s manner, his words, and even a piece of flypaper, but not the name of the restaurant in which this pivotal event took place.
“Mrs.
Wickett,” Driscoll began, his voice more tentative. “You’ve had a terrible blow and I imagine there’s all sorts of things you need to consider right now. But if it’s all right with you I’d like to continue with our arrangement. I don’t expect you to give me an answer right away. You can mail me your decision whenever you’re ready.”
Though the prospect of the Remedy being sold without Henry’s letters still gnawed at her, Lydia enjoyed the notion of a certain small portrait preserving a foothold in the world. “Mr. Driscoll,” she answered. “Before meeting you, I was prepared to curb my own inclinations in favor of whatever I thought my husband would have wanted, so it’s a happy surprise to realize that my wishes aren’t any different from what I think Henry’s would have been. I see no reason to cancel our arrangement. Now that I’ve met you, I’m pleased to think that Wickett’s might have a chance to live on.”
Mr. Driscoll grinned. “Gee, Mrs. Wickett, I’m awfully grateful. I’ve got big plans for the Remedy—just you wait and see!” She suspected that if Henry could see them at that moment, he too would be smiling.
Alas, Henry was unaware of this meeting until Lydia joined Us. Our knowledge is confined to Our collective memory, the conflux of Our whisperings.
They shook hands once more. For a few months, Lydia received accountings from her business partner by mail, his envelopes weighted with a few coins and accompanied by friendly notes detailing modest sales. When the letters stopped she hoped that Wickett’s final advocate had found a more profitable use of his time. Whatever it was, she wished him well.
GERMAN HELD AS ALLEGED SECRET AGENT
The proprietor of a West end pawnshop Thursday telephoned the department of justice that a young German had pawned a suitcase for $1.50 and that inside he had found German papers, a checkbook showing large expenditures and several timetables. Deputy Marshals Bradley and McGrath, armed with a warrant, hastened to the shop and there arrested D.H.G. Speckermann, a farmhand, of 21 Pine Street, Waltham.
Speckermann explained that after he had returned to Boston from a visit to his aunt in Napoleon, Ohio, he did not have money enough to get to Waltham. Therefore, he said, he pawned his suitcase.
He explained the checkbook—from which none of the checks had been detached—by saying that while he was in Ohio his 13-year-old cousin had found the book, and making believe they were wealthy, had written the checks for the joy of economical extravagance. One was for $110 in payment for an alleged mythical taxicab bill.
He was also questioned regarding a small note-book, in which were found such Biblical phrases as, “Friends of Jesus,” “Service of God,” “Precious Ointment,” “Example of Love,” “Divine Anointing,” and “The Great Commandment.” It was thought at first that these were code words.
THE QD SODA WALKING TOUR
Fourth Stop: B Street
For the last and most exciting stop on our tour, take the red line to South Boston’s Broadway station. It’s no coincidence that this T line is the same color as the QD label: it used to be known as the QD line!
Once you arrive, walk down West 2nd Street. Turn left on B Street and walk to number 169. You are now standing before the home of QD Soda! At its heyday, the plant was open daily and accommodated thousands of visitors each year. Though daily tours ended in 1956, QD Soda Headquarters has remained a popular destination for QD Soda aficionados from around the country, who come to “see the source,” and to stock up on their favorite soda! Tours are now conducted every other Sunday or by special appointment. See the machine that filled the very first bottle of QP Soda, and learn how QD Soda is made today. This tour will tell you everything you ever wanted to know about QD … except the secret recipe! Mention this walking tour at the Gift Shop and enjoy a 20% discount on all purchases!*
We hope you’ve enjoyed this unique glimpse into our soda’s—and our city’s—history. Don’t forget to tell a friend!
*Antique items excluded. Only soda purchases of 6 or more 16 oz. bottles qualify for discount.
Two months after registering for the draft Michael received his letter of induction. For eight weeks they had all been waiting—Michael and his brothers impatient, Lydia and her mother anxious, and her father often alternating between excitement and trepidation in the course of a day. Then one evening Michael came early to dinner waving the letter in his hand like it was a winning lottery ticket, and the wait was over. Thomas, James, and John danced around him giddy as puppies, while Lydia stared from her place at the kitchen table. The longer she remained motionless and silent, the longer she could postpone the onset of a moment she had, through sheer force of will, convinced herself might never arrive. This gained her five additional seconds in a world in which her brother was not army-bound. Then Michael was standing before her and she had no choice but to put her arms around him, his excitement not contagious but tangible, a runnel of charged air that enveloped her as they embraced. Even as she told herself it was better for her brother to welcome a circumstance over which he had no control, she could not help but take his enthusiasm personally. Her reaction was selfish and childish and completely beyond her ability to temper. When she imagined him gone her tongue turned to ash in her mouth.
For the going-away party she baked a rectangular cake with black-market sugar, using rose water and violet water icings to create a flag. The result was paler than she had hoped but she was proud to have fit in all forty-eight stars. She had not worn one of her West end dresses since meeting with Mr. Driscoll. Of the three, she preferred Henry’s favorite. When she removed the blue linen dress from its suitcase, it smelled of the West end flat, but after an overnight airing the fabric absorbed the smells of D Street to become a dress again and not a ghost.
The afternoon of the party was sunny and pleasantly warm for early March. Even once everything was in order—the flat tidy, the cake and other delicacies removed from the icebox, the borrowed plates and utensils marked so that they could be returned to their owners once the well-wishers had been fed and sent home—she delayed getting dressed. As long as the blue dress hung from the bedroom door, the party remained in the looming but still measurably distant future. Once she put the dress on, her brother’s departure would be reduced to a matter of hours, and then minutes, and then breaths.
The boys decorated the stoop and stairwell in red, white, and blue bunting. Mrs. Feeney moved her phonograph from her sitting room to the second-floor hallway, which while too narrow for set dancing would permit pairings so long as everyone watched their elbows. Jennie Feeney’s daughter Alice was Lydia’s age and had married the same Malachy O’Toole who as a boy had teased them as they walked to school. Now Alice, Malachy, and their three children occupied the second-floor flat across the hall from the elder Feeneys. Well aware of her mother’s fondness for reels—and uncertain the hallway would withstand more than waltzes and two-steps—Alice appointed herself the day’s musical custodian.
Malachy did not much notice Alice until Liddie went out of his league by becoming a Gilchrist girl.
Patrick Lucas and the boys arrived with a few flasks of whiskey as well, but they kept those to themselves.
Michael’s brethren from the icehouse arrived with a barrel of beer from O’Reilly’s, which they had ferried through the neighborhood on a dray wagon decked in red, white, and blue ribbons. Within moments of the wagon’s arrival to 28 D Street the party had begun. In addition to Lydia’s cake there were cookies baked by Alice and decorated with miniature paper flags from Gorin’s; a bunch of bananas brought over from Mr. Leary’s by Mr. Leary himself; several mince pies, which their mother had baked because they were Michael’s favorite; and savory toasts made by Mrs. Feeney, which were only eaten once the rest of the food was gone.
Jennie Feeney is sure her toasts went as quickly as anything else.
The kitchen collected women while the front room drew men, but from the moment the music started Michael could be found only on the second floor, where it was said he was dancing with all comers. The party was yo
ung enough that Mrs. Feeney’s phonograph could be heard over the kitchen’s hubbub. The kitchen table and its chairs had been pushed against the far wall to create a small rectangular clearing the approximate size of Lydia’s sleeping pallet. She had positioned herself by the table in order to cut slices of cake, while her mother stood by the sink mixing pitchers of lemonade, a drink that while not seasonal matched the afternoon’s temperate weather. With every new song Cora Kilkenny paused in trading gossip with Mrs. Kirkpatrick and Mrs. Tierney to look toward her daughter, a conversational break that served each time to redirect the room’s eyes.
“You go, Ma,” Lydia finally offered when she could no longer withstand the room’s collective gaze. “I bet it’s been ages since you and Da took a spin.”
“But Liddie, you love to dance,” her mother protested.
Once a month Lydia and Henry had plied the Scollay Square dance halls. Henry was a more careful dancer than Lydia was used to, but she grew to enjoy the courtly manner with which he waltzed her about the room. She shook her head. “I’d rather stay here and look after things.”
Mary Riordan points out that she was wearing a dress every bit as nice as Liddie’s.
Her mother shrugged. “Well then I think I will go. Your da and I are overdue for a proper go-round. But I’ll expect to see you up there later on. A bit of prancing will do you good.”
This was the first time Margaret Kelly had seen Liddie since Henry’s funeral. When eventually Margaret became a widow herself she wished she had been friendlier—but at the time Liddie seemed too different from the friend she had once known.
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