Wickett's Remedy (6 page)
Authors: Myla Goldberg
He stared triumphant from the opposite corner, his arms crossed, looking like he expected her to applaud.
She leaned against the wall for support. She closed her eyes and swallowed. She had worked so hard to make the flat feel new. Just yesterday she had found an old stain on the settee, one that had preceded their arrival, and though it had taken thirty minutes of vigorous scrubbing she had managed to remove it completely from the upholstery. She did not want to have to leave. Henry’s parents certainly would not take them in. They would have to return to Southie.
Angelina Fratelli is positive Lydia is referring to the pomodoro stain left by a misfired plate of spaghetti thrown by her cross-eyed husband. As long as Angelina lived in the flat, she looked at that couch with fondness.
“It was a dissection today, wasn’t it?” she began, proud of the evenness of her voice. “I know how hard those can be for you. I’m sure if you returned right now and apologized for whatever it was you said, they’d take you back. You’re the son of a prominent family; I’m sure they’d be happy to do it.”
“Lydia,” he began.
“I’m certain it’s not too late,” she continued.
“Lydia—”
“You can tell them you weren’t yourself,” she assured him. “Something came over you, but now you’re fine.”
“LYDIA,” he shouted. It was the first time she had ever heard him raise his voice. “You’re the one who’s not yourself!” The way he was shaking his finger reminded her of Father O’Brian. “I have finally realized my destiny, the very destiny
you
prepared me for. You can’t possibly be displeased. I remind you that you are my
wife.
”
Henry is certain his wife never caused him to speak in anger.
He left the parlor. His steps moved down the hallway and into the bedroom. She observed the stillness of the room he had left behind: the settee from which she had once proclaimed her name as if she were royalty; the side table on which she had imagined Henry’s medical school friends would rest their drinks during parties they would now never throw; the broad, smooth floorboards of pumpkin pine on which she had imagined hosting dances once they could afford a phonograph. Lydia felt like she was attending a funeral for the room, the various aspects of its stillborn future laid out before her. She thrust her head out the parlor window and sucked in draughts of tepid West end air.
According to Angelina, the room was much too small for dancing.
You need an extra man behind the counter today, Mr. Thornly?
Before the Somerset was divided into flats, Paolo di Franzio points out that it housed a dance academy. He prefers to think Lydia’s thoughts at this moment were influenced by his memory of having waltzed across that once spacious floor. His hope is Our shared desire: that at an unguarded moment, Our whisperings will broach a living ear.
Hello there, Quentin. I wasn’t expecting to see you until Saturday.
I know, but I figured the news might make it more like a Saturday in here than usual. You heard about what happened?
I did. Absolutely terrible. I hate the water, can’t imagine a worse way to die. Gives me a sick feeling every time I think about it. I had to fix myself a
bromide and then was too shook up to drink it standing, so I had to sit on one of my own stools.
One thousand innocent people.
One hundred twenty-eight of them American! I don’t see how Wilson can keep us out of it now.
The Huns are lower than a dog’s belly. They all deserve to be sunk. I figure people’ll be wanting to talk.
Well, so far it’s just a regular Tuesday in here, Quent. I suppose you could check back later if you wanted, but if you want my opinion I think you’re getting too old for this sort of thing.
What’s your meaning, Mr. Thornly?
It’s time you started up with something of your own instead of selling sodas for me. You ought to be selling something for yourself.
One day I will, Mr. Thornly. You just watch. One day I’ll have a store of my own.
Sure, but how are you gonna go about getting yourself that store, Quentin? When I was your age, I had already been selling headache powder for five years.
Headache powder?
It was a good product. I started when I was sixteen, first door-to-door, and then to the drugstores, and eventually I expanded into stomach pills and hair tonics and by the time I was twenty-eight, I had saved enough to rent a storefront.
You’re not trying to fire me, are you?
Hell no, Quentin! But if you’re serious about running a store of your own, you’d be doing yourself a favor to take up with a product. It’ll round out the education you’re getting here with me.
I don’t think headache powder’s my line, though. In today’s modern world, you need something that stands out.
Now you’re talking sharp. If you keep an eye to the world and an ear to the ground, I’m sure you’ll find the perfect thing. In the meantime, have a lemon soda and don’t let this
Lusitania
business drag you down.
Thanks, Mr. Thornly.
That’ll be a nickel.
All right, but so long as you’re charging me, make it the way I make it—in a nice glass with lots of syrup.
VOLUME 9, ISSUE 2 SPRING 1991
The Coin-Op Show
Those of us who were able to make it this year were not disappointed. Stan Apotts won the prize for farthest traveled, having flown in from Wisconsin, as Cathy Beauregard, our usual long-distance spoiler, stayed in California this year to help look after her newest grandchild, who she’s already turning into a QD fan!
There were several handsome QD ads picked up by yours truly, including an almost mint condition metal sign featuring Delores Opple, my favorite QD Cutie. But the real gem of the show was found by Francis Greely, who was lucky enough to discover a 24-jag crown cap of the sort that was discontinued after the bottling facility was upgraded in 1925! And if anyone out there has thoughts of a swap, believe
me, we’ve all already tried and she’s not trading!
Of course, the best part of the weekend was catching up with old friends. In our usual suite at the Days Inn we stayed up past our bedtimes listening to tapes of the old radio programs and swapping remembrances. To those of our regulars unable to join the fun this year due to poor health: I wish you a speedy recovery and hope to see you next year!
An Unexpected Call
I was sitting at home one night a few weeks ago when the phone rang. When I picked up, the voice on the other end said, “Hello, Lorena, this is Ralph Finnister.” Of course at first I thought it was one of you QDevils out there up to your usual good-natured hijinks, but the voice at the other end of the line assured me that this was no trick. I asked him to prove it.
When he asked me how he might do that, I suggested that he tell me the secret recipe for QD. He laughed and said that he was afraid he couldn’t do that and then it was like we were old friends. Of course the President of QD Soda has been on the
QDispatch
mailing list for as long as the
QDispatch
has been in existence, but I certainly never expected that he would call yours truly! Or that he’d ask to submit something for an upcoming issue!! But friends, that’s exactly what happened, and so, starting with the next issue, the
QDispatch
will be appearing bi-monthly in order to run a multi-part series by the President of QD Soda himself entitled “QD and Me,” which Mr. Finnister hopes some day to turn into a book. I’m of course honored that we’ll be printing it first and I’m sure you’re looking forward to the first
exclusive installment as much as I am!
In This Issue
Cooking with QD … Page 3
QP Soda in Hollywood Page 4
How to Spot a Fake: Is Your Collection Safe… Page 5
H
enry’s transformation on quitting medical school was dramatic. Traits Lydia previously had assumed integral to her husband’s character instead were revealed to be manifestations of his former unhappiness, while habits she would never before have associated with her husband emerged like butterflies from latent cocoons. Henry metamorphosed into an early riser, often preceding her out of bed and preparing their morning tea. He had been an absentminded medical student at best, but now he kept ordered notebooks and had transformed the small room off the parlor into an immaculate office. The first time she heard him whistle she thought she had left the kettle on, though she thought it strange that the teapot had managed the first few bars of “Hello My Baby”; then she discovered the sound was coming from her husband, who had arrived home with a new selection of business titles. Henry no longer resembled an old man inhabiting a young man’s body. His belief in Wickett’s Remedy had remade him, and while this had not made a believer out of Lydia, she thought her husband’s new happiness might.
Henry hoped to persuade his father to make him a loan for the Remedy’s starting costs, and toward that end he procured a book entitled
Business Finance Made Easy.
He drew up, in his elegant hand, a chart listing the Remedy’s expenses and projected earnings and prepared a small speech, which he practiced in front of Lydia so often she memorized it as well. Saturday evening, she pressed Henry’s shirt and trousers and pretended not to notice he could not fall asleep.
Her offer to accompany him to West Roxbury that Sunday was politely rejected—he thought it best he face his parents alone. Lydia was chagrined by her relief at being spared the visit, but the prospect of witnessing Mr. and Mrs. Wickett’s reaction was even more unpleasant. Her only uncertainty concerning her husband’s fate in West Roxbury was whether his parents would dissuade him by reason or by force. When she visited D Street alone that Sunday she kept silent on the topic of Henry’s absence, preferring her family to think she and Henry had quarreled rather than cause him future embarrassment. She told herself she was performing a kindness, but her silence felt disloyal, as if she was abetting the return of her husband’s lifelong discontent. And because that made her feel terrible, she tried—as she went through the motions of her weekly visit home—not to think of West Roxbury at all.
Lydia had no cause for shame. Henry was just as relieved to stay his wife from the scene of his almost-certain failure.
She returned to the West end with a cold portion of the Kilkenny Sunday ham wrapped in wax paper. She found Henry at his desk, his silent figure offering no sign of his parents’ verdict.
“Henry?” she began softly, not wanting to startle him.
“Don’t
do
that!” he gasped.
“I’m sorry.” She placed a tentative hand on her husband’s narrow shoulder. “Did it go well?”
He smiled, but looked tired. “Yes, very well.” He hesitated, scanning her face. “Not at first, of course. They weren’t very pleased to hear that I’d left school.”
“No,” she confirmed. “I didn’t think they would be.”
The silence of the flat engulfed them. Henry turned to face her, but his gaze sought other moorings. She felt as if time had reversed, returning them to Monty’s lunchroom. She waited for her husband to continue but each potential recommencement dissolved, an uplifted eyebrow or an intake of breath instead presaging more silence.
“What did your mother say?” she prompted once she could not bear to wait any longer.
“She didn’t like it,” he replied. “But this was a business proposition, which is my father’s arena.”
Henry admits to being deliberately vague. In fact, his father threatened to cut off his allowance in six months if he had not returned to medical school—an ultimatum Henry thought best to keep to himself.
Lydia could not fathom how Henry had gained his father’s ear within Ernestine Wickett’s domain. Her mother-in-law was not a woman who deferred to anyone in any matter, business-related or otherwise. Henry’s cheeks were perhaps more flushed than usual, but his appearance was otherwise unchanged. There was no outward sign of her husband’s new-forged mettle.