Wickett's Remedy

by Myla Goldberg

  “Oh!” Peterson exclaimed, grinning weakly. “Oh dear, now I understand. No, no, Able, it’s nothing like that! Oh dear. Mather’s coccus. I suppose it does sound rather—awkward, doesn’t it?”

  Harry lay down again. “Yeah, Doc,” he replied. “It sure does.”

  After Harry had been reinoculated, the rest of the men made a show of complying as nonchalantly as possible to Gold’s and Peterson’s requests, making a point of smiling at Harry all the while.

  “Mm, tastes good!” murmured Cohen.

  “I can’t believe you was afraid of a little sugar water,” Gray teased.

  “I think you oughta give Harry more of that coccus,” suggested Kipling. “I think he secretly likes it.”

  “Aw, you’re all wet,” Harry scoffed. “Go ahead and talk.”

  “Hey Doc,” Frank Bentley asked once all ten inoculations had been administered. “How long you want us lying down?”

  Peterson explained they would soon be permitted to sit up, at which point they could do anything they liked so long as they remained inside the room, which would be locked from the outside to prevent against accidental exposure. Throughout the period of quarantine, their temperatures would be monitored three times daily and regular blood and throat samples would be taken. Dr. Gold encouraged the men to relax and to enjoy themselves, and to remember that they were doing a great service for their country. Lydia did not understand how anyone could be expected to enjoy himself inside a locked room where he was waiting to fall ill, but if anyone else found the suggestion inappropriate, he did not show it.

  As the doctors made their exits, Lydia turned her attention to the shattered dropper. When she heard the door to quarantine open and close, she sensed a change, as if the room had exhaled. She finished her task to find herself alone with the men, who were looking about the ward as if for the first time. John Kipling and Sammy Harris nodded at Lydia as they made their way toward the card table. Harry Able grinned. It was as if Sunday suits had been traded for more comfortable clothes.

  She made a show of tidying her cart, trying to think of some small duty that might allow her to stay.

  “You’re from Boston?” Frank Bentley asked her as though resuming an old conversation. He had moved to a table with Tony Cataldo, who was setting up a checkerboard.

  “South Boston,” Lydia answered. “D Street,” she added when Frank Bentley smiled.

  Tony Cataldo looked up from his game. “Did I call it, or what?” he boasted. “I got a cousin who runs a fruit store on Emerson. I figured you for a Southie girl.”

  Frank grinned. “It’s strange, ain’t it? Being so close to home somewhere that feels so far away?”

  Lydia was too surprised to do more than nod.

  “It’s like that for me,” Frank continued. “I’m from Waltham. Never been to Boston before I enlisted, not to mention Southie, but now I guess I know the pier as well as anybody.”

  “You were at Commonwealth?” Lydia asked.

  “Sure,” Frank replied. “Most of us were, one time or another, before getting sent up to Deer Island. The only good thing about the brig was still being able to watch the gulls. Waltham’s got a piece of the Charles running through it, but it’s a shoelace compared to the Harbor.”

  “But you don’t at all seem like you belong in prison!” Lydia exclaimed, blushing before the words had left her mouth.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Frank grinned. “Of course, we may seem harmless, but in reality—take Harry over there. Hey, Harry, what was it you were in for?”

  “Aw, come on, Guvnor,” Harry groaned. Frank scowled, but Lydia thought the nickname suited him. Frank Bentley struck her as the sort of fellow who would make it his business to know everyone and everything doing on his block.

  Without meaning any disrespect to Nursie Lydia, Sammy Harris would like to point out that they called Frankie “Guvnor” on account of the statue he was found sleeping under when he didn’t make it to his ship on time.

  “You don’t gotta be nasty about it, Harry. I’m just trying to give our nurse here an idea of what she’s up against.”

  Harry eyed Lydia. “Dereliction of duty,” he mumbled. “I overslept. Overslept and was late to K. P. You happy now?” He glared at Frank and then glumly returned to his cards.

  “I’m sorry,” Lydia offered.

  Harry shrugged. “No point in being sorry for something you’ve nuthin to do with. If I’m lucky the Navy’ll take me back after all this.”

  “Harry here’s a glutton for punishment,” Sammy chimed in from behind his card hand.

  “Best job I ever had,” Harry grumbled. “Three square meals, a clean bed, and pocket money. I was planning to stick around.”

  “Then maybe you oughtta thought twice before signing up for flu duty,” Sammy teased.

  “Knock it off,” Frank growled. “We’re all gonna come out of this just fine.”

  “Hey, Frankie, we playin’ checkers or what?” Tony complained.

  “I should be going,” Lydia said without moving toward the door.

  “I suppose we’ll be seeing you?” asked Frank.

  “I’ll be bringing your meals and anything else you might be wanting while you’re in here,” she confirmed. “I’ll also be assisting Nurse Foley with the examinations, but she’s made it clear that I—” She looked toward Harry Able. “I’m not really a nurse, you see. I’m hoping to learn enough while I’m here so that after all this—” She gestured at the room.

  “What were you before?” Harry asked, pushing his cards aside. They were all looking at her now.

  Lydia gave Harry an appraising glance. “Mr. Able, I have a pair of gabardine trousers in imported wool that would look absolutely stunning on you. They’re the smart thing for the season and also a timeless addition to any wardrobe. Let’s see. … If I’m not mistaken, you’re a forty-four inch waist, thirty-two inch inseam.”

  Harry looked down at his legs and then back to her, his mouth agape.

  “At one of the fancier places too, I bet,” Frank said.

  Lydia nodded. “If someone had brought me a man dying of flu, I could have sized him up for a smart dinner jacket in no time at all.”

  Harry nodded, then Sammy. Lydia moved her gaze from man to man, meeting each pair of eyes as she went.

  “Well, Nurse Wickett,” Frank said, resuming his game and capturing two of Tony’s checkers. “I’d say we’re in pretty good hands.”

  She was out the door before she realized that she was expected to lock them in, a task that had not crossed her mind when provided the key. She wondered if the click of the bolt falling into place caused the men to shiver as she did or if their time on Deer Island had inured them to the sound. The door secured, she pushed her cart down the hallway, its squeaky wheel sounding like an alarm.

  Sammy never got used to the sound of a door being locked behind him. For years afterward he never locked anything he was inside of, not even the bathroom.

  How come it’s luck if I win and science if you do?

  If you gotta ask I sure ain’t telling. You want in or not?

  Go ahead and deal.

  Hey Evert, howya feeling?

  All right, I s’pose.

  Stop asking him, wouldya Harry? You’re making it worse. Who wants checkers? How ‘bout you, Joe?

  Can’t you see I’m busy?

  How many does that make, Cohen?

  Four.

  You write the same thing to all of ’em?

  Sure.

  That’s smart, Joe. Saves brain waves. I oughta do that myself.

  Go on, Barber, I’m sure there’s a million dames out there who wanna read what you write to yer crusty old ma.

  Can it, Tommo. At least I know how to use a pencil.

  I’ll play checkers with you, Barber.

  Thank you, Frankie.

  How’re you feeling, Frankie?

  Harry, if you and Soapy’re so worried, go take each other’s temperatures and leave me and Tony t
o play checkers in peace.

  We were chumps to sign up for this.

  What’re you talking about, Soapy? Do you know how many gobs back at the Island would kill to be here right now?

  I only had a few months to go.

  Sure, but then you’d be out with a yellow ticket. Who’s gonna give you a job with a yellow ticket? You wanna be a grayback for life? A chance like this, Soapy, you did the right thing to jump on it. What’ll you do when you get out?

  I dunno.

  That’s what you oughta be thinking on. Making plans. Your life’s just been handed back to you on a big fat greasy platter. You know how old I would’ve been before I saw another woman if I hadn’t volunteered for this hayride? Sixty.

  A sixty-year-old virgin.

  That’s Soapy for you, always talking about his father.

  Yeah, yeah. Very funny.

  King me.

  Aw Frankie, that was a lucky move.

  Nothing lucky to it, Tony. Checkers ain’t Twenty-One.

  NEW SERUM BARS PNEUMONIA

  Federal Doctors Declare It as Efficacious as Other Vaccines

  Congress Grants Million for Fight

  Vaccination with a recently discovered serum, which has been found to be an almost positive preventative of contraction of pneumonia, will be used to combat the current epidemic of Spanish influenza.

  Use of the vaccine will be widely extended, Congress today having appropriated a million dollars to be used by the public health service in fighting Spanish influenza. The serum is designed primarily to prevent pneumonia, which often follows attacks of influenza, and which is the cause of practically all the deaths attributed to influenza.

  One treatment with the vaccine only is needed. Though medical authorities connected with the public health service declined to venture a prediction as to its effectiveness, they said confidently that it will prove as valuable as the vaccines being used against other diseases.

  October 10, 1924

  Dear Mr. Driscoll,

  I thought I would have received word from you by now, but there has been nothing. Mr. Driscoll, do not worry, I do not expect you to honor our contract as it was. Maybe you wanted to buy the recipe from me years ago but you could not find me. I am not a money-grubber, I only want what is fair.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Henry Wickett (former)

  FAX

  DATE: 8/17/93

  TO: Mr. Thomas M. Menino

  FROM: Ralph Finnister

  SUBJECT: Ambassador Flynn/QP Soda Jubilee

  Mr. Menino:

  For several months I corresponded with The Honorable Mayor Flynn regarding next week’s QD Soda 75th Jubilee Celebration—in specific to the Jubilee’s street-renaming ceremony, over which he has been invited to preside. Until recently I had reason to believe he would be attending. However, with the Jubilee just days away I have yet to receive confirmation.

  To be blunt, I fear that the events surrounding The Honorable Mayor Flynn’s Ambassadorship confirmation may have precluded provisions being made for the QD Soda Jubilee. If that is not the case, then please accept my gratitude and kindly disregard this correspondence.

  Mr. Menino: the inventor and founder of QD Soda, Quentin Driscoll, is an aged man. As of late, his golden years have not rested lightly on his shoulders. He has become troubled by the false notion that his professional life was not the exemplary model the rest of us know it to be. It is a tragedy that such a man, who devoted himself so fully and selflessly to the soda that bears his name, should be troubled in his twilight years by such thoughts. I cannot overstate the potential good—at the ceremony designed to honor his lifetime of service—of the presence of a man soon to be in the presence of the Pontiff. If there remains any chance that you could—in your capacity as sitting mayor—prevail upon Ambassador Flynn to attend the Jubilee street renaming, I would consider it a personal favor that would not go unrewarded in the fall when, as I understand, you will be seeking to win a less temporary appointment to the mayor’s office. If you are unable to effect the Ambassador’s attendance, I hope it will not prevent you from attending the street-renaming ceremony in his stead and reading a statement on his behalf.

  Enjoy the accompanying case of QD Soda with my compliments.

  Sincerely,

  Ralph Finnister

  President and CEO

  QD Soda

  The following morning she awoke to find she was inhabited by two women. One used the time before breakfast to study a nursing manual; the other was haunted by visions of Dr. Peterson looming over each volunteer, his dropper releasing not a clear liquid but something with the ominous viscosity of mustard gas. The former had mobilized for a mission contingent upon volunteers falling ill; the latter dreaded complaints of chills and aches that would precede more profound debilitation, the men’s wan smiles foreshadowing the creatures she feared they would become—enervated forms too weak to raise their heads, muddy-chested creatures who struggled for breath. As she approached quarantine with her cart—its medical accoutrements replaced by ten breakfast trays—Lydia’s racing heart beat for both these women, her pulse an uncomfortable amalgam of emprise and unease.

  Clear morning light poured through the quarantine ward’s wide windows, spilling across the wood-planked floor and onto the beds. The room was stuffy despite its size, but she refrained from opening the windows, uncertain whether outside air was permitted under the strictures of quarantine. The men were evenly divided between late sleepers and early risers. George Denson was the most impressive of the former: he lay splayed on his back, his arms dangling off either side of his bed as if he had been tossed there by a receding tide.

  “He snores,” complained John Kipling at her arrival. “Kept me up pract’ally all night.”

  “You ain’t no sleeping beauty yourself,” Billy Gray countered. “You was sawing plenty of your own wood.”

  In the corner by the far window, Frank Bentley was engaged in calisthenics.

  Billy noticed that Frankie saved his exercising for after the quarantine door was opened.

  “Good morning!” he called out. “Is that breakfast?”

  “It’s breakfast,” she confirmed. “There’s coffee as well. If any of you weren’t warm enough last night I can bring extra blankets.”

  At the sound of Lydia’s voice the remainder of the men began to stir. She watched for signs of listlessness among the late risers, for any indication that the seeds sown the day before had taken root. Instead the men stretched and yawned like this was any other morning. Their sleep-tousled hair reminded her of her brothers, who at that moment would be seated before bowls of oatmeal and mugs of tea, kicking at each other beneath the kitchen table.

  “This is the life, eh fellas?” bellowed George, his voice breaking her reverie. “The boys on the Island would blow their lids if they knew how good we was getting it here, pretty ladies bringing us our grub.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.

  The men grew quiet. They scanned one another’s faces, their eyes wary.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” Frank ventured, “but I feel just fine.”

  “So do I,” George confirmed.

  “Me too,” added Teddy Evert who, at twenty-one, was the youngest of the ten. The rest of the men broke into relieved grins.

  “You see,” George explained, “Teddy here’s the smallest so we figure if anyone’s going to catch it he’s the one. He’s our canary in the coal mine.”

  “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the inoculation,” came a voice at the door. Lydia had not heard Nurse Foley enter and now she felt as if she had been caught out in something. The nurse had arrived holding a vial of thermometers for the day’s first temperature readings. Their tips glinted silver in the morning light like a strange, sterile bouquet.

  “If you boys were already unwell I would worry the test had been compromised.” Foley smiled. “The inoculation needs time to take effect. It’s unlikely you’
ll feel anything before tomorrow.”

  The men nodded, though whether in agreement or resignation was uncertain. Lydia trailed behind the nurse as she had always done, recording thermometer readings. True to Foley’s prediction, there was no hint of fever among the men.

  Tony Cataldo would have agreed with anything Nurse Foley said. She had the nicest bubbies he had ever seen.

  With a brief nod, Nurse Foley collected the medical log and exited the room, leaving Lydia—with her cart of breakfast trays—feeling like a maid whom the lady of the house, in passing, had deigned to greet.

  Joe Cohen liked blondes as much as the next guy, but that Nurse Foley was a prig, with a skimpy ass besides.

  “Whatcha got for us?” Billy asked once the nurse’s footsteps could no longer be heard.

  “Whaddya think, Kewpie? It’s eggs,” George retorted. “Ever since we got here it’s always been eggs.”

  “Y’never know, Georgie,” Billy replied. “It could be something different now we’re quarantines.”

  George Denson shook his head. “Kewpie here thinks he’s still on the Island. The eats was always extra in sick bay.”

  “I don’t, neither,” Billy protested. “I know exactly where we is. All I’m saying is maybe it’s something else. There’s no law saying otherwise, ain’t that right, Nursie Lydia?”

  “It’s eggs,” she confirmed.

  “Good,” Billy nodded. “I like eggs.”

  Her progress around the room was uneventful until she offered Joe Cohen his tray.

  “Do me a favor and take that off for me,” he said, pointing to a slice of meat. “It’s ham, ain’t it?”