Jasper woke up the next morning, the scent of laboratory chemicals in his hair, visions of Hazel’s sliced skin in his mind, and a drumbeat in his ears: morphine, morphine, morphine.
Hazel Dreyer had died of a laudanum overdose. After a long extraction process and the delicate addition of sodium bicarbonate to neutralize the aqueous acid, the white morphine crystals precipitated immediately and in large quantity. The answer was definitive but dragged along the other question: Was it an accident or a poisoning? He would go to work to see what the next step would be with the police—but then he remembered: today was the third draft. No work.
He rubbed his temples. All the comfort in his usual routine—a path to assuaging his ambition—was in limbo today. He felt an odd disconnect from the war and from those who talked incessantly of the Champagne-Marne and the Hundred Days Offensive. It wasn’t that he didn’t want America to win. He wasn’t stupid enough to be unpatriotic out loud; the Espionage Act was a very real threat. But in his heart, fighting on the front was an end with some rather brutal means. Oscar had taught him that much.
He read the casualty list every day, as he’d done since Oscar was first drafted. Even after his brother died, he kept reading them, as if the dead were owed at least that much from him. Thousands of soldiers died every day from sickness, more from combat. Taking a few Krauts down before his own demise was not in his plans.
Uncle Fred was puttering around the kitchen as usual. When Jasper twisted the doorknob to leave, Fred cleared his throat.
“I’m proud of what you’re doing,” he said.
Jasper grunted. “That assumes I have a choice.”
“You do.”
“Look. I’m no coward. I can’t dodge what’s coming to get me.” He left and locked the door behind him.
The city was in celebration mode. Banks and shops were closed. Public schools were closed, most being used for registering men. Several shops opened late and closed early to allow their employees to register. Jasper walked a few blocks to his local board office, where a line of men waited. A boy no older than ten handed out flyers to men passing by. Jasper took one. It read “Learn to Kill Huns.” He folded it and put it in his pocket without reading another word. Already, dozens of others had lined up behind Jasper.
Most of the men were merry and spoke of heading afterward to one of the nearby hotels, which were providing free drinks for registrants. Mercifully, the wait to the front of the line was short.
A uniformed man standing at a desk glanced at Jasper before picking up a new registration card.
“Are you a citizen of the United States?”
“Yes,” Jasper answered.
“Age?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
His address, eye color, build, and Uncle Fred’s name were written down in curly script.
“Sign here.” The registrar pointed.
Jasper did. And then it was over.
“When will we know?” Jasper asked.
“General Crowder will announce the new draftees in the next two weeks. But they’ll likely draw leftovers from the June draft first, and the gents nineteen and up from this one. They’re still holding off on the youngest ones yet. Sorry, kid. You may have to wait a few more months.”
Relief flooded Jasper before dark guilt replaced it. He hardly enjoyed the lighthearted patriotism that surrounded him as he wandered the streets all afternoon. He even went back to Bellevue, only to be told the pathology department had closed early. At some point, he ate a sandwich. And then it was three o’clock, and he was in front of Smith & Walley. The druggist was closed for the day. A waste. But Allene was there, standing wide eyed, watching men clap each other on the back as they walked down the street.
“Well. Is the deed done?” Allene asked. She wasn’t smiling as she usually would.
“Yes. I signed my card. I’ve done my bit.”
She threaded her fingers into Jasper’s and squeezed. He squeezed back, surprised that his dark feeling receded a touch.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like, losing a brother to the war,” Allene said.
“Then don’t.”
“Oscar wanted to fight, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I think if someone told him it was proper to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, he would have done that too. He wasn’t too keen on the future.”
“So you’re not Oscar,” she said simply. She looked at the locked door of the drugstore. “They’re closed. I guess everyone thinks it a holiday.” She shivered. “Keep me company before I go back home?” Jasper gratefully offered her arm, and they began to walk down the street. They turned left, then right, aimlessly walking the streets of Brooklyn.
“Hazel definitively died of a laudanum overdose. I found out last night,” Jasper said, apropos of nothing.
Allene nodded and frowned. She looked around at the celebrating young men and shivered again. Like Jasper, perhaps she saw the walking dead. Which was perhaps why she refused to look him in the eye.
“I don’t want to talk about that. Not today. Tell me about something else.”
“Like what?” Jasper asked.
“Tell me what your favorite acid is, and I’ll tell you my favorite base.”
For two hours, they talked about mercury and sulfuric acid, beautiful benzene and basic aldehydes. They spoke of planets and gases and pieces of the universe they would never, ever touch but longed to.
Jasper enjoyed having Allene’s arm leaning on him all afternoon. It gave him purpose, at least for now.
CHAPTER 19
Thank goodness Allene had stopped coming to her bedroom.
There was a routine to things, once Birdie settled into the Cutter house. She took off a decadent whole week from work to mourn. It would give her enough time to decide and act on what to do next for her and Holly. Allene told her that her father was giving them two months. “But I’ll change that to forever,” she’d said firmly. But Birdie wouldn’t assume their welcome would last indefinitely. Self-preservation and survival told her to prepare to leave.
But hope told her maybe, just maybe, they might stay.
For the time being, she and Holly were situated in the all-white guest room. Holly decorated it with a piece of broken brick turned into an automobile with chalk-drawn wheels. New copies of The Theatre magazine and Metropolitan magazine gathered cozily on the nightstand.
During the daytime, Birdie dabbed her eyes while she and Allene whispered about Hazel, about the results from the autopsy, the letters, Florence. They nervously waited for news from Jasper. Birdie verified that lately, Andrew had always done the opium syrup ordering. Birdie’s sadness was assuaged by Allene’s comfortable chatter.