Iron released from an oxide and ignited by pure aluminum. A simple reaction, but soothing nonetheless. The iron left a tang of molecular coating on her fingertips that she almost preferred to perfume. She put the nugget back in her pocket, where it clanked against her new Wonderliter.
Telephone lines marred the sky above her, following the path of the avenue. People walked so much faster than Allene, but she endeavored to keep up. There was an urgency here that was missing on Fifth Avenue. It was the pace of the working. These people had a purpose in their lives, hurrying them along. Allene couldn’t remember the last time she’d hurried for anything or anybody. Today was a marked change.
She was early for her meeting with Jasper. On the train, she’d listened to passengers talking of the Germans being slaughtered in counterattacks. Influenza had taken hundreds in Boston. The Spanish grippe was rumored to also be sinking its claws in parts of Brooklyn and the Bronx. Someone had coughed, and Allene had turned her shoulder away. Surely it wouldn’t get that bad. Before long it would all blow over, and the city’s worry would evaporate with it. In the meantime, she was planning on using the trolley and subway soon, to explore parts of Manhattan beyond the confines of Dawlish’s chauffeuring. She planned to make the most of the two months until the wedding.
Smith & Walley was soon before her. Jasper leaned next to the door, smoking a cigarette. His shirt and jacket were crumpled, and his hair was mussed under his newsboy cap. He resembled none of the fine-bred Joneses of yore, and she wondered if hard living could sour blue bloods after only four years.
She glanced inside the store window. A man in an apron behind the counter eyed Jasper suspiciously.
“Well. Good morning,” Allene said.
“Maybe for you,” he said. There was a waspish tone to his voice. His eyes were bloodshot and lids puffy, as if he’d been out drinking all night long. “I was working a night shift so I could get off to be here.” But he seemed more off key than just tired. And then she remembered the other chatter on the El about the morning’s headlines—Crowder had summoned more men from the draft.
“Oh, Jasper. Please tell me you’re not heading for the cantonments.”
He exhaled and dropped his cigarette, crushing it viciously under his heel. “I’m not.” He seemed relieved, yet he didn’t seem happy. “They’re sending mostly boys nineteen and older and the leftover boys from the two earlier drafts. Lucky me.”
“I’m so glad!” Allene ignored decorum and embraced Jasper quickly. Oh, but if only his youthful, slim frame could stay in one piece after all. “I wouldn’t want you to have Oscar’s fate.”
“Oscar and I would never have had the same fate. He was lost before the army, and if he were alive, he’d still be lost.”
“And you have everything figured out.”
“If I did, would I be here?” He squinted at her. The morning sun was in his eyes. “What about Andrew and Ernie?”
“Andrew had a medical release. One of his legs is slightly shorter than the other.”
“Adonis is imperfect? Stop the presses.”
Allene ignored him. “And Ernie isn’t quite eighteen yet. So, if the peace talks don’t go anywhere, you both may be up again in a few months.”
Jasper stared past her head at a Red Cross volunteer heading their way with a sheaf of flyers. “Well. Are we going in or talking all morning about Pershing’s never-ending appetite for soldiers?”
Allene sighed. He was pushing away the conversation the way he always pushed away anything having to do with Oscar. She remembered him from so many years ago. He had been taller than Jasper, but a thin and watered-down version of his younger, stronger, vivid brother. His limpid mood had repelled Allene—she’d found him utterly unattractive. Jasper seemed to have enough ambition for the both of them—even though Oscar was buried somewhere in Suffolk County courtesy of the army.
Jasper reached for the door, but Allene held him back.
“Wait.” She drew him away toward her and shook his lapels out, ironing them down with her hands. She yanked off his cap and raked her fingers through his hair, settling it down until the waves were somewhat more tamed. It gave her an excuse to touch his soft hair.
“You’re grooming me? Am I a dog?” Jasper said.
“Don’t be silly.” She straightened his collar and gave him a peck on the cheek, which made Jasper’s eyes sparkle. “There. Now you look more alive.”
“Nothing like a pretty girl to wake a boy from the dead.” He tried on a smile, and it seemed to fit well. “How are Birdie and Holly getting along?”
“All right. They had a quiet day after the funeral. Birdie went back to work at the factory this morning, though I told her not to. I couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t listen.” She had told Birdie not to trouble herself about expenses, but off she went at seven o’clock anyway. It would be such a long commute, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. When Allene had pressed her again, she said with practicality, “Allene, there’s a war going on.”
Jasper said, “Well, some people have to make their own way in the world, Allene.” He thought for a minute. “Whether they want to or not.”
It was a stab at her and her family, she knew. Allene chose to tuck away the comment and consider it later when she could pout in privacy.
“Anyway,” Allene said, sweeping away her dismay, “let’s go in.”
Jasper held the door for Allene. Once inside, her posture changed. She threw her shoulders back, lifted her chin, arched her eyebrows just so. The clerk behind the counter straightened up at attention. He was young, only a few years older than she. His hair was very dark, almost black, but he had that pale Irish skin that made the few freckles on his cheeks look like he’d been sprayed with a mist of brown ink.
Behind him, nostrums lined the shelves. There were rows of blue and brown bottles, lidded jars, and paper packages with tight printing and scrolls with the proprietary Smith & Walley script on each one.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked.
“Yes. I’m looking into a prescription for a friend. Apparently, she received the wrong one, and I’d like to see the records so we may find out where the mistake happened.”
The boy’s eyes went round, and he clamped his lips shut. Allene and Jasper exchanged looks.
“It’s Hazel Dreyer,” Allene said. “A dear friend of mine.”
“But she’s dead,” the boy blurted. Once again his eyes bulged, and he put his hand over his mouth before adding, “Oh, I’m sorry. You did know that, didn’t you? She’s the one who got the wrong prescription and died. The dosage was off, apparently. A terrible mistake. The police asked us all about it.”
“Yes, that’s the one. Terrible tragedy.” Allene leaned over. Her rose perfume scented the air about her like a floral halo, and the boy’s nose flared in the presence of so much femininity. “May we see your records? We’ve been sent by Mrs. Dreyer’s daughter to find out how this happened.”
“Well—we have one ledger, where we write down the prescriptions—it was misplaced.”