Winchester Walk

She leaned against the door of the post office. The pain was almost unbearable.

"If I can only make it home," she thought. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been able to walk the distance to her house in about five minutes, but it had taken her forty minutes just to get to the post office, and she had little reason to hope that the trip back would be any easier.

It was March, late winter, and there were patches of snow and ice still on the sidewalks and streets. The cold only made the trek home even more unpleasant. From where she stood outside the post office on Catherine Street, she could see the bit of park marking where State Street and Wilbraham Road came together. Beyond the Square, she knew that on Eastern Avenue, a second floor tenement above the empty stores awaited her. Yet, in her current condition, even that short walk through Winchester Square seemed like a formidable no man's land.

Her husband had stood before her, the words hissing through his teeth, "Mail this before three!" She took the envelope and left, knowing too well the tone of that voice. It was hard to believe she had once loved him, harder still to believe that she still did. Earlier that morning, she had seen him slip twenty dollars into a small, white envelope. Just now she had mailed it with a three-cent stamp, its intended address "A. Wilson 2230 Broad Street, Boston, Massachusetts." She didn't know anyone named A. Wilson, but she knew her husband knew several women in Boston. He had told her about them in a moment of drunken cruelty.

Six months ago there had been the cancer diagnoses, and the pain had become ever-present. There was no money for medicine, so the pain simply had to be endured. Despite the throbbing in her side, she pushed herself to leave the post office and begin the return journey. "If only I can make it to Wheeler's Drug Store," she thought. She took a deep breath and jay-walked across the street in the direction of the drug store. At the curb she grasped a street light pole with her right hand and felt a sharp pain as she pulled herself up on the sidewalk.

Thirst was becoming a problem, as her throat had become so dry she could hardly swallow. She simply must make it to Wheeler's. Suddenly she had to pause as a boy ran past her, his newspaper carrier bag flying after him. Standing before the store she pushed open the heavy door. Sitting at a stool at the end of the soda fountain, she sighed with relief. The druggist behind the counter, who had been watching her struggle, asked, "What'll you have, lady?"

"Water, just a glass of water," she replied.

"You okay, lady?" he asked with what sounded like sincere concern.

"Did the pain show that much?" she wondered to herself. The pharmacist filled a glass of ice water and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly, the liquid feeling coolly refreshing to her dry mouth. As she drank, she noticed the druggist serve a cup of hot chocolate to the newsboy who had ran past her. Their eyes met for a brief moment. He looked to be about twelve, in a shabby coat with a red and blue stocking cap. He had beautiful blue eyes.

The water seemed to revive her, and she decided to try again. She thanked the pharmacist and slid off the stool. A customer entering the store held the door for her. "You okay lady?" he said. She forced a smile, nodded yes, and then continued her trek through the Square. "I can do this," she decided as she started across State Street. Once again the newspaper boy ran past her, and suddenly she realized he was running into the path of an oncoming trolly! Instinctively the woman reached out and grabbed the boy's newspaper bag, holding him back just in time to avoid being hit, although it came close enough to graze his jacket.

"Oh wow!" the boy exclaimed. "Thanks, lady! Who are you?"

"I am Mrs. Stone, and I was glad to be of service." she replied and then asked his name, to which he responded, "Haskin Flagg." The newsboy then thanked her again and continued on his way. Slowly, she made her agonizing way through the Square. As she was crossing Wilbraham Road, a police officer asked her if she needed help. She nodded and took his arm as together they crossed the street, and on the other side she thanked him. Passing Charkoudian's she turned onto Eastern Avenue and The Strand Theater was just ahead of her. The marquee read, Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik, a silent picture that was undergoing a revival even though it was 1938 and the days of silent films had passed.

At last she reached the alley that ran between the theater and the tenement building where she lived. Groping along the wall for support, she reached the stairs leading up one flight to her home. She was breathing hard. "The top, the top! she told herself and tried to visualize entering her kitchen with the red and black pattern of linoleum on the floor. Instead she felt herself swooning, helpless to stop herself as she sank onto the stairs. The last thing she felt was a hand on her shoulder and she turned her head to hear Haskin Flagg telling her, "Hey Mrs. Stone, don't worry, I'll get help!" Then the darkness closed in.

For many years later, a mysterious rose would appear once a year on a grave in St. Michael's cemetery, a grave marked Agnes Stone 1891 - 1938.