Wickett's Remedy

by Myla Goldberg

  Going. My company prob’ly shipped today. I tell ya it’s awful lousy getting left behind.

  Don’t I know it. Say, you think it’s true about the Gerries?

  Sure. They started running outta gas soon as Wilson took us in … ya know it’s funny them dressing you in gray—if I didn’t know better I’d take ya for a jailbird.

  Yeah, s’funny all right. They got a real sense of humor around here.

  Okay Thompson, that’s good enough. Now lean toward Seaman Riley’s face. Closer. Good. Seaman Riley, if you would, please exhale deeply five times. Then, if you’d be so kind as to cough.

  Sure thing, Doc. Feels a little funny doing this, though.

  Don’t worry about it, sailor. A little closer, Thompson. All right, Riley. Go ahead.

  You gettin’ any good flickers?

  Last week at the Pier they showed a Keystone caper that was pretty first rate. But I’d rather a Norma Talmadge pic any daya the week. Even when the picture’s lousy she’s aces.

  I’d give my right nut to see Theda Bara.

  I heard they was sendin’ a bunch of Hollywood dolls over t’France. I tell ya, I’m missing all the best parts of this war.

  Where’re you from anyway? You sound like Detroit.

  South end, born an bred.

  You’re kiddin’ me! You know Pauley’s?

  Do I know it? Chum, if I could have one thing right now it’d be one of Pauley’s roast beef sandwiches, extra mustard, extra horseradish.

  Gee that’s funny, two Detroit fellas like us meeting in a place like this. How’d you land this duty anyways? Seems like a bum steer.

  Believe me, it was better than where I was before.

  Remember me to the 45th when you get there.

  If I get there. At the rate things’re going it’ll be all wrapped up by the time I’m ready to ship. Anyone in particular you want to be remembered to?

  Anyone but Greenaway. We never got along too good.

  I’ll try to remember. Besides this Greenaway fella they’re mostly good guys, am I right?

  They’re tops. I miss ’em like brothers. But steer clear of Greenaway. He’ll land you in all sorts of hot water.

  Thanks fella.

  That’s good enough, boys.

  BODY LEFT FIVE DAYS ON SHELF

  Shocking evidences of apparent neglect by undertakers in the failure to bury the bodies of three children, victims of the grip, were brought to the attention of the board of health last night, and a far-reaching investigation of undertakers’ methods where reports warrant inquiry at this time will be started today by Dr. William C. Woodward, Boston commissioner of health.

  Discovery of yesterday’s cases followed description in the Herald last Friday and Saturday of deplorable conditions in the North end. In one case of an unburied child, disclosed yesterday, the body of the infant was found “on a shelf, covered with a rubber cloth, with rubbish on top of it.” The body had lain in the undertaker’s shop since it had been removed there from an East Boston home on Thursday morning last. “It was decomposed and in bad condition, with offensive odors therefrom,” according to a report filed in the health department last night by Police Officer Roger Flynn.

  I don’t think we ought to do it.

  And I’m tellin’ you you’re wrong.

  It’s a sin, is what it is. It’s deserating the dead.

  It ain’t deseration; the body don’t know the difference. It’s the livin’ you gotta worry about. How’d you like bein’ told there ain’t no coffins fer your loved one, he’ll have to go straight into the ground?

  But ain’t that exactly what we’re doin’?

  Sure, but only after his people already saw him. It won’t hurt nobody to take him out now. Don’t you want to let another family get their loved one buried proper?

  But ain’t this coffin paid for?

  That ain’t none of our business. Doncha want to earn a little extra?

  Sure, but—

  And don’t it say in the Bible “dust to dust”?

  Yeah, but—

  Well, we’re just helpin’ that along, see?

  But we can’t just—

  It’s a unique situation. If we do it like Mr. K wants then everyone’s happy: me, you, Mr. K, the families, everybody.

  What about Jesus?

  What’s he gotta do with anything?

  If it’s a sin I gotta know so I can confess it.

  Jesus wasn’t even buried in a box. He was wrapped up in a sheet!

  Gee, I never thought about that.

  Well don’t feel like you gotta start now.

  But I think I ought to confess it anyway, just to be sure.

  I don’t care what you tell the priest so long as right now you give me a hand.

  Aw, jeez—

  Look, you’re so bothered by it, turn your head. … Good. Now, wait—just—a minute. … All right, now help me put the dirt back in.

  But—

  Just shovel, all right? We got another one waiting.

  My Beautiful Darling—

  Our house is much smaller than it used to be and I do not recognize anything. Today I opened our front door and some rascal had switched our front lawn, our driveway, and even our Packard for an ugly brown hallway lined with ugly brown doors. Where are you? I have looked everywhere. Are you at your mother’s?

  Darling, I have a confession to make—I never wrote to the widow. Perhaps you guessed as much. I wish there had been someone like you to give me advice at the very beginning, before I had a family to consider! Please believe me when I tell you that I did not act out of cruelty. I am a coward, not a villain. But I guess you already knew that as well.

  What do you hate most, my cowardice or my weakness? I know I was a terrible old goat, but I have been faithful to you for so many years that when I see another woman the thought does not even cross my mind. It is true that I have been dreaming of the widow—You see? I tell you everything now!—but Darling, the dreams are so unpleasant—it is as if she is whispering the saddest parts of her life into my ear. I should have made a clean break of this business long, long ago, but perhaps she can still forgive me. Perhaps you can too.

  Always,

  Your Loving Husband

  That night was strangely quiet, the breeze and ocean still. Lydia occupied a different room—one with pale wallpaper adorned with cornflowers, a Queen Anne dresser made of dark wood, and a tall wardrobe with brass fittings. The sickness inside her was an undulating creature with arms that clamped across her chest and up her spine and into her skull. Her insubstantial body was covered by a sheet from which one skinny leg protruded, sheathed in striped pajamas. When she heard movement she turned to see herself enter the bedroom carrying a bowl of chicken broth. She watched her image claim a chair beside the bed and lift a spoon to the lips of the invalid she had become. The broth was almost impossible to choke down, but she managed to swallow. She was overcome with gratitude for the broth and especially for the steady, patient hand holding the spoon. She wished to speak. She could feel love welling up within her, a physical presence antipodal to her illness.

  “Thank you,” wheezed a thin voice that jolted her awake.

  We regard Lydia’s dream as a triumph for Henry Wickett. His whispers among Us most often concern the unexpressed feelings he had for his wife during their last living hours together.

  Lydia stared in confusion at the dark window and at the three vacant beds as the sound so unattuned to the curve of her throat echoed in the empty room. In the grip of that sound she could assign herself neither name nor place. She bolted from bed. Her pounding heart pushed her from her room, down the hallway, and outside the barrack. She stood motionless, her face flushed as the dream faded and her body once again became her own. She began to walk.

  It was late. The lower portion of the diminishing moon was draped in gauzy clouds, as if even it were wearing a mask, but enough remained unobscured to illumine her steps as she traced the compound’s edge. She crept forward on the
balls of her feet, not wanting to stir even the wind with her trespass. Then the quality of the island’s silence changed. She thought she heard a footstep. She told herself it was her imagination, or perhaps a rabbit, though she had never seen a rabbit at night.

  She strained her eyes toward the fence. A figure appeared to be standing frozen just outside the compound’s perimeter, but in the moon’s dim illumination its outline was vague. She was not prepared for what she did next.

  “Henry?” she whispered.

  The shadow—or what she took for a shadow—did not move. The longer she gazed the more it seemed to approximate a human figure, but moonlight could be deceptive. She moved closer. As she neared, she thought she saw the shadow shift slightly, as though deciding whether to flee; but instead it remained, more broad shouldered and sturdy than Henry had ever been.

  “Michael?” she gasped. She stilled the urge to run forward and instead gazed at the figure as if her eyes had grown fingers. Slowly the figure began to move. Like part of the wind itself, it entered the compound through a hole in the fence and made its way toward her. Warmth welled from within her as though her body had grown, in its longing, a second heart. Then her lips formed her brother’s name again. The figure was too close to deny. The fence was behind it now and it approached faster than before. If she could be held one last time in her brother’s arms she would memorize everything: the press of each muscle into her torso; the places on her body where Michael’s palms and fingers fell; the smell of him; the confidence contained in his limbs.

  She wobbled on her feet. She rushed toward the figure and gave in to the broad chest and encircling arms, her head pressing into the space just beneath the neck.

  “Liddie?”

  The voice was familiar. When she gazed upward she recognized the broad nose, the full mouth. These features did not belong to her brother. She pushed away from the chest with such force that she lost her balance. Gravel pressed into her palms and backside, but the coldness of the ground did not erase the lingering warmth beneath her skin.

  “Careful,” Frank Bentley’s voice whispered. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” He held out a hand to help her up.

  Slowly she stood. She felt like a part of her had been emptied onto the gravel beneath her and was now indistinguishable from the dust.

  “You all right?” he whispered. “If I thought you hadn’t seen me I would have stayed put, believe me.”

  On the contrary, once Frank saw it was Lydia he felt driven, past all common sense, to be seen by her.

  “You’re not supposed to be outside,” she warned. “You’re supposed to be in the barracks.” She looked around, expecting to see someone running toward them. “If they catch you they’ll send you back.”

  “On nights when I can’t stand it anymore,” he whispered as though he had not heard her, “I crawl out the barracks window. If any of the other boys see me they keep it to themselves.”

  There was no more than a foot of space between them. “Usually I just walk along the beach but sometimes I go in up to my knees.” He smiled. “I can’t swim, you know. Most gobs can’t. Throw us in the drink and we’d drown like a bunch of rats.”

  “When I first saw you I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered. “I thought—” She stopped. She was no longer certain what she had been thinking.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  She was wearing only a nightgown. She ought to have been embarrassed as well as cold, but somehow Frank spared her from both, their combined presence creating a buffer between themselves and the exigencies of the world.

  “It’s mad, wading in the ocean in winter.” Lydia could smell brine on his clothes. “If you were to catch a chill now, after coming through everything else …” She shook her head. “Don’t ever do this again,” she cautioned.

  “Dance with me,” he whispered.

  Frank remembers Lydia inviting him to dance.

  She meant to speak, surely she meant to protest, but then came his hand at the small of her back, the warmth of it running along the length of her spine. They stepped as if to a waltz. She could hear pebbles shifting beneath her feet.

  “Aren’t you frightened?” she whispered, but he shook his head. She watched the tendons of his neck rise to the surface of his skin and then resubmerge.

  They were no longer dancing. They were standing frozen, the way dancers do while waiting for the next song to begin. She knew she ought to remove her hands from his shoulders. She ought to turn away and return to her room.

  He lowered his head. She could feel the warmth of his cheek and the slight stubble there. She could smell soap and salt and the clean, pure scent of skin.

  “Thank you, Liddie,” he whispered.

  There was the fleeting press of his lips against her cheek, and then he was gone.

  You all right, Percy? You’re looking peaked.

  I’m okay. A little tired perhaps.

  You work too hard. You ought to play a rubber with me and Chaz; forget the lab for an evening and give us a chance to win your hard-earned wages.

  Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’ll probably make an early night of it.

  Don’t be such a grampus. The way you’re going you’ll run yourself into the ground before things even get interesting—at least wait until the graybacks get sick before you start making the rest of us look bad.

  It’s nothing personal, Cecil. Maybe another time when I’m not feeling so worn out.

  You think you’re coming down with something?

  I don’t know, Cecil. I guess I’ll see how I feel in the morning.

  UNDER CITY ORDINANCE ALL PUBLIC MEETINGS BANNED

  The following is an order issued by the Board of Health last night at a special assembly to consider the Spanish influenza epidemic:

  Whereas, The city of Boston and the State of Massachusetts are currently in the grips of an epidemic of Spanish influenza of the virulent type; and,

  Whereas, The daily increasing number of cases reported by physicians indicates a very serious situation which can only be met by the most stringent measures; therefore,

  It is moved, seconded, and carried that the Board of Health of Boston hereby directs the health officer to carry out the following measures for the protection of health and in order to assure a timely control of the present influenza epidemic; closing

  All places of amusement, including theaters, moving picture houses, concert halls, and dance halls.

  All lodge and fraternal meetings and gatherings.

  All penny arcades, merry-go-rounds, and other or similar types of public amusement places.

  All private dances, balls, club gatherings, and social gatherings of whatsoever nature and kind.

  And further:

  That all Sunday School classes, church services, and socials be discontinued.

  That community singing be discontinued.

  That all public and private schools and kindergartens be closed until further notice.

  THE QDISPATCH

  VOLUME 11, ISSUE 5 AUTUMN 1993

  Boston or Bust

  Well, QDevotees, we came, we saw, and we celebrated. QD Soda is now officially seventy-five! Talk about aging well—the birthday girl didn’t look a day over twenty! I don’t know why I’ve always thought of the soda as a lady, perhaps it’s those cute bottles she comes in. But enough about me. The rest of this issue will be devoted to the main event: the QD Soda 75th Jubilee Celebration.

  A Happy Arrival

  In addition to those of us who live in the QD capital, a few of us from out of town were able to attend the festivities. Audrey Mantz and I both came in by bus Friday afternoon and Harold Lozenge drove down from Hartford. I think our most long distance arrival was Selma Kupik, who took the train all the way from Chicago. All of us out-of-towners stayed at the Best Western. Even though most of us stayed up past our bedtimes talking, it was still hard to fall asleep that first night. I for one didn’t get to sleep until long after midnight, and then I spent
the whole time dreaming about the Jubilee.

  A Promising Beginning

  Saturday morning we met on Washington Street to take the walking tour. Many of us had taken it before, but it was still a real treat. For me, one of the most bittersweet parts is seeing what little is left of the neighborhoods where the QD Follies used to be and where Quentin Driscoll grew up. It really steams me to see how much QD history has been erased, but I suppose that’s the price of progress.

  When we arrived at QD Soda Headquarters we were met by the QD President, Mr. Ralph Finnister himself, which was a big thrill. It turns out he is a real gentleman in addition to being a “great Sodaman” and a fine writer! He gave us complimentary bottles of soda as well as free tickets for the factory tour. Most of us remembered the original tour from when we were kids and it wasn’t the same, of course, but it’s a really cute tour and perfect for all ages. There was even a puppet!

  We spent the rest of the afternoon in the museum, which proves the saying: good things come in small packages. It is always a pleasure to while away the hours among the museum’s beautiful mint-condition collection of signs and magazine advertisements, not to mention their complete line of bottle caps and bottles, all of which were in beautiful shape, including the elusive 22-jag cork cap. Though of course I’d love to have a 22-jag of my own, it does my heart good to know there is one in a place where everyone, young and old, can come to enjoy it.

  Reliving History

  That night, we convened at the hotel to reminisce. To honor the Jubilee year, everyone agreed to share their first memories of QD Soda. Ken Gerard gave a touching description of his neighborhood soda counter, which left us wishing those places hadn’t gone the way of the dodo bird. Judy Niggles kept us laughing with her story of being a very, very little girl when she was fed her first QD Soda in a bottle—with a nipple attached! As usual we stayed up far too late catching up on each other’s lives, but for those of us who attended the Coin-Op show this year, there was a little less ground to cover as we had enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company just a few months before.