Wickett's Remedy (16 page)

When Michael’s first letter from Devens arrived it was passed around 28 D Street with as much ceremony as a strap from Saint Patrick’s sandal. Lydia’s mother was quick to point out the steady penmanship and proper spelling—and if she was disappointed by the missive’s brevity she did not let on. According to his letter Michael was working very hard, the food was lousy, and the fellows were first-rate. As there was no more room in the barracks, his regiment was sleeping in tents; but once the next company shipped out they would be moved inside. He sent his love and dearly missed his mother’s cooking. He hoped the grub would be better in France. Once the letter had completed its tour of the building it was tacked beside Cora’s picture of the Sacred Heart in the front room, where all visitors were enjoined to read it even if they had read it before.

Michael’s second letter from Devens arrived exactly a week after his first. Its resemblance to its forebear did not stanch anyone’s enthusiasm for the knowledge that he was still working very hard, and that neither had the quality of the food improved nor the quality of his comrades declined. There seemed to be a nasty flu going around, Michael’s tent mate had finally begun brushing his teeth, and Michael had impressed the lieutenant with how much he could carry on his back.

Between the two letters’ arrivals there was a parade. This in itself was not unusual. Since Wilson had declared war there were often parades for Liberty Bonds or the Red Cross or new enlistees. The Win-the-War-for-Freedom parade was different, however, because Michael was not there to watch it. Lydia hoped that observing men in uniform would more easily allow her to picture her brother in his.

The morning of the parade James and John washed behind their ears without being told, Thomas arose early in order to shine his shoes, and Lydia braided a red, white, and blue ribbon through her hair. Upstairs similar pains were taken, as the shipyard workers from the pier—Malachy included—would be marching in solidarity with the recruits. All Southie, it seemed, was headed west across the bridge. The streetcar was so crowded that Lydia placed John, who was too old for such things, on her lap. The streetcar was filled with Sunday suits and dresses adorned with Liberty Bond pins. It was rumored the parade was to be filmed in order to boost morale overseas, and on the crowded streetcar people sat with handmade signs between their legs, which read
HELLO JIMMY FROM YOUR B STREET PALS
and
OLLIE YOUR MOTHER LOVES YOU
.

Lydia’s favorite part of any parade was the marching band. Marches on the Victrola had no flash or strut: the drums did not electrify, the trumpets did not exalt, and the tubas did not pull the strings of her legs in time to the music’s promise of good news just out of reach. She loved the erect carriage of the marchers in their impeccable uniforms and the proud way they held their instruments, as though each trumpet and flute and drum were incontrovertible evidence of all that
had gone right with the world. As strong as her love of marching bands was her conviction that she was as indispensable to a parade’s success as the marchers themselves. Without people spilling over the sidewalks and onto the street, without the crush of elbows and peanut breath and frantically waving flags, a parade was merely a contrived walk.

The air was crisp and cool from a recent rain, which had washed clean the streets and sidewalks and store awnings so that the city, like its citizenry, was wearing its best clothes. No one was certain of the exact parade route, so her father decided they would disembark at Hawley Street and walk. This proved wise as the crowds overflowing the sidewalks soon reduced the streetcars to stationary viewing platforms.

Vendors hawked peanuts and flags and patriotic buttons; there were penny candies and victory dogs. James and John had a nickel between them and bought a flag they vowed to share, agreeing to alternate possession at ten-minute intervals. This proved highly contentious as neither owned a watch. Thomas walked slightly ahead, his proud shoulders thrown back, his head erect, and his draft card at the ready. To his delight, the draft age had been lowered to eighteen the week before.

Against a street clock leaned a veteran of uncertain vintage, clad in a faded uniform from the Spanish-American War. At unpredictable intervals the antique soldier placed a weathered bugle to his faded lips and produced sounds of astonishing vigor, startling Lydia, who had not at first noticed him. At the sound of the horn she recalled a scene from a war picture, in which a bugler summons his regiment. The theater accompanist
had played reveille on the piano but there was no comparison to the sounds emanating from the old man’s battered instrument. She had never heard a live bugle before. If at that moment the bugler had beckoned to her, she would have followed without question.

Her family slowly made their way toward State Street until, reaching the corner of State and Congress, they could progress no farther—the crowd had grown too thick. At first John squatted, hoping to peer at the parade through the legs of the crowd—but when this provided only glimpses of shoes and pant cuffs, he resigned himself to receiving the parade in the irregular interstices offered by the constantly shifting crowd. Lydia bragged to fellow spectators that her neighbor was in the parade, but her thoughts were with her brother. Today’s parade was necessary preparation for his eventual appearance on a street like this one, on his way to a ship that would carry him to Europe.

Well, Quentin, I must admit that when you first took up with that tonic, I wasn’t sure it was the standout product you were looking for. There was something just slightly off about it.

Gee, Mr. Thornly, why didn’t you tell me?

I didn’t want to quench your fire! You reminded me too much of myself when I was your age and, besides, I’m an old man. It was possible I was missing something.

You wouldn’t hold back on me now, though, would you? That is, if you’ve still got doubts?

Quentin, I’ll be straight with you: you’ve definitely got something. What made you think of it?

Well, it was partly the widow. She reminded me how Dr. Wickett had never thought of the Remedy as a medicine—

You tried to explain this to me before. Some cocka-mamy thing having to do with letters?

I never quite followed it either, but I didn’t let it bother me on account of the tonic’s taste. And then it hit me—I wasn’t any more interested in medicine than they were: I was interested in flavor! And what do people drink when they’re after something that tastes good?
Soda!

What does the widow think?

I haven’t told her yet. You see, if no one likes it, I don’t want to risk upsetting her over nothing. I figure if I can come to her with guaranteed money from proven sales, it’ll help my case.

Well if it keeps selling like it has been, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.

VOLUME 9, ISSUE 6 NOVEMBER 1991

QP and Me: A Sodaman’s Journey By Ralph Finnister

Chapter 4 The Promise

That night I could barely sleep. Why did Quentin Driscoll want to see me? For two years I had been moved from department to department like a bottle on a conveyor belt. At every stop I had worked my hardest, only to feel the belt lurch beneath me and move me on. Was Quentin Driscoll’s hand on the lever? Sometimes this seemed the only answer and sometimes this seemed a boy’s folly.

The next morning I reported to the third floor
just as I had two years before, but this time with nothing to deliver except myself. The crazy conveyor belt that had carried me for so long was reaching its end. But would my little bottle pass inspection?

Quentin Driscoll was just as I remembered him. When I entered his office, those dark eyes stared at me with such intensity that I trembled.

“Let me look at you,” he offered as I stood before him. Though he was unchanged, in the course of my two-year journey, I had grown from a boy into a man. My arms and legs had lengthened, and my voice had deepened. I had even begun to grow a moustache like one I had first seen two years ago—on Quentin Driscoll’s face.

“When you came to me before, had you ever traveled?” the Sodaman asked me.

“Traveled?” I replied. “No, Sir.”

“And what do you think of the trip you have just completed?” he asked with a knowing smile.

I was as still as flat soda. After two years of uncertainty, it seemed my fondest wish might be true.

“For two years, my boy, you have been traveling the world of QP Soda. I have been pleased to learn that you learn fast and travel well.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I replied. Those words of praise would have been enough, but there was more.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, my dear boy. I wanted to see if the instinct I had wasn’t merely a sad man’s fancy. If there was more to you than just a name. I am pleased to say I have not been disappointed.”

And now, though I could still feel my inspector’s eyes on me, I did not feel fear, but happiness.

“Ralph,” the Sodaman murmured, his voice
becoming softer. “I have great plans for you.”

I had not returned to Quentin Driscoll as an empty vessel. My bottle had been filled at each stop with some new and valuable ingredient, all according to the recipe of a master craftsman. I was not ready to be capped off yet—no, I still had much to learn—but I was well on my way.