On D Street there was no need for alarm clocks: the drays, ever punctual, were an army storming the gates of sleep. The wooden wagons were heavy and low-riding with loud rattling wheels, their broad planks too battered and be­grimed to recall distant origins as trees. Each dray was pulled by horses--two, four, or sometimes six per wagon--pound-ing down nearby Third Street. Windows rattled and floors shook; the sound was a giant hand shaking Lydia Kilkenny's sleeping shoulders. Each morning she did not awaken to the sound, but inside it. In winter the drays came when the sky was still dark, their pounding hooves sharp reports against the frozen cobblestones. In summer, perhaps because the sky was already pale with light, the sound of the horses seemed kinder.

When her daughter was still a wee thing, Cora Kilkenny recalls Liddie crediting the sound to God waking up all the good Catholics of D Street.

She knew the clattering wagons were bound for Boston proper, but the vague tangle of streets across the Broadway bridge surfaced in her mind with the sound of the horses and resubmerged with its diminishment. As the flow of drays sub-sided--the wagons no longer traveling two by two but single file--pounding hooves gave way to the creak of floorboards and the muffled voices of neighbors. Factory whistles blew. Church bells rang. The vegetable man made his way down D Street shouting, "Fresh tomatoes," even if there were no tomatoes, because those words distinguished him from the other vegetable men who plied their carts through Southie.

As Lydia stirred, her mother put up water for cocoa and oatmeal. By the time Lydia had the little ones dressed, Michael and their father had finished their morning ablutions and the washbasin was hers alone. By the time she had brushed and pinned her hair, the drays were gone. Indeterminate Boston had once again been vanquished by the certainty of Southie.

Jamie remembers the warm press of his sister's hands as she lifted him from bed and set him down beside the clothes she had waiting for him, the sound of the horses rattling in­side his head like loose marbles.

South Boston belonged to Lydia as profoundly and word­lessly as her thimble finger. Her knowledge of its streets was more complete than any atlas, her mental maps reflecting changes that occurred from season to season, day to day, and hour to hour. Each time she left 28 D Street--one among a row of identical triple-decker tenements lining the street like so many stained teeth--her route reflected this internal al­manac. If on a Tuesday afternoon her mother wanted flour and jam from Hennessy's, Lydia would avoid the more direct route along Fifth Street due to her dislike of the soap grease man and his fleshy block of laundry soap. No matter what the errand, Third Street was best avoided in early evening when the flood tide of drays returning to their stables posed a threat to both body and nose.

In deep winter, when ice and hard-packed snow made walking treacherous, West Broadway was the place to catch a ride on the tailboard of a snow dray delivering milk, groceries, or beer, but sledding was best saved for Dorchester Heights. If a good enough sled could be found, and if the streets were not too crowded, it was possible to start at G Street and traverse almost a quarter of the alphabet--all the way to L Street. Whether because he was luckier or a year older, Michael was the superior sledder; at her best Lydia could only make J Street before her sled or her resolve gave out.

Because Dan Kilkenny was an iceman, the whole D Street...

 

"With this second voyage out, Goldberg demonstrates her versatility, mixing research with whimsy, sensitivity with humour, satire with romance."

 

"Goldberg displays a fresh, distinctive, totally winning voice."

 

"A rich historical re-creation whose energy and ingenuity evoke memories of EL Doctorow's classic Ragtime, Stephen Milhauser's Pulitzer Prize winner Martin Dressler and Thomas McMahon's forgotten picturesque mini masterpiece McKay's Bees. A fine novel .... And a quantum leap forward for the gifted Goldberg."

 

Praise for Bee Season:
"Bee Season is a profound delight, an amazement, a beauty."

 

"An impressive debut. . . . Goldberg is a gifted writer."

 

Wickett's Remedy by Myla Goldberg
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