Copyright © 2018 by Dolley Carlson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover art by Dan McCole
Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt
Print ISBN: 978-1-51074-331-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-51074-332-8
Printed in United States of America
To Tom Carlson
My love
PROLOGUE
EVERY TIME I RETURN TO Boston, I realize now, I am looking for my parents. Will he come quickly around the corner? That handsome young copper with the brilliant blue eyes and confident swagger? Will I, in some mystical way, time frozen in 1953, see him again? Daddy.
Will the wished-for dream continue as I catch one more glimpse of the pretty mother of three pushing her baby’s carriage along the Strand in South Boston? Will I see the darling little boy who always held on to the carriage handle? And the little girl who loved to lead the way just a few-skips ahead? Does she dream of seeing me too? Mummy.
There really isn’t any reason for me to walk and walk through the city of Boston, up and down the upper-crust streets of Beacon Hill and across the vast Common, which was my father’s beat when he was a rookie policeman. Or stroll working-class South Boston’s tight-knit Irish neighborhoods and treasured beaches and stop to light candles at Saint Augustine and Gate of Heaven churches, in memory of my loved ones. No reason, other than to say, I miss them and I miss the diamond days.
“Diamond Days” is an Irish song that refers to cherished times, and that is how I remember my Boston Irish Catholic childhood’s bygone days of love and promise.
And then there’s the red coat—an enduring legacy from both sides of the city …
And I’ll love the memories of the diamond days.
I’ll keep a candle burning, ’til we sing again, the diamond days.
JIMMY MACCARTHY
PART I
CHAPTER 1
What fills the eye fills the heart.
IRISH PROVERB
NORAH KING STOOD STRAIGHT IN her black stockings, black, low-heeled, laced work shoes, navy-blue skirt, white blouse, and full, starched white apron, her thick, auburn-gray hair piled neatly on top of her head in a bun. “Mrs. Parker … may I please have a moment of your time?”
Caroline was stunned to hear one of the floor washers say her name, and surprisingly pleased by the soft Irish brogue in which it was said.
“Mrs. Parker, first of all I want you to know it isn’t my way to be listenin’ to the conversations ’round about me … still, I couldn’t help but overhear you’re givin’ that fine red coat away to the poor. And isn’t that a good heart you have now, to be thinkin’ of others?”
Norah and Mary had been keenly eyeing the elegant garment all morning long. Both knew it would be out of place for Norah, a domestic, to request the coat for her daughter, and doing so could possibly put an end to any future work in the brownstone mansion. However, Norah deeply loved her firstborn; so grateful was she for the girl’s uncomplaining nature and helping ways that maternal love overtook propriety. And when Mrs. Parker hurried across the damp entry floor on tiptoe, carrying a vase of fresh flowers from the kitchen to the parlor, Norah stood, wiped her rough, wet hands on her apron, and stepped forward.
The mother of nine had a lump in her throat for what she was about to ask, but self-respect brought her shoulders back, while resolve took a breath, and pride held her chin up. “If it would be all right with yourself, could I please have that beautiful red coat for my daughter, Rosemary?” Norah put her right hand in her apron pocket, placed her left hand over her wrist, and waited.
It was early April, and Caroline Adams Parker busily ordered her housekeeper, caretaker, and cook about the task of spring cleaning with the goal of having everything in order by tomorrow, Palm Sunday. Earlier in the week, curtains and drapes were removed from every window—even the one in the small cellar door—laundered and pressed, or sent out to the drycleaners. Each multi-paned window upstairs sparkled after being washed the day before by Palowski & Son’s–Best Window Cleaners in The Commonwealth, as the sign on their paneled truck advertised. They would finish the job this morning.
Caroline firmly believed in hiring skilled help for specific house maintenance jobs: gardeners, window cleaners, painters, and now floor washers, two Irish women who usually scrubbed the floors of her husband’s company, Parker Shipping, after hours on weeknights, had come in from South Boston for the day. Norah King and Mary Callanan both had large families and saw the opportunity to work on Saturday as heaven-sent and a chance to earn a little something extra to help with the children’s Easter clothes.
The Parkers’ live-in help, husband and wife, Rolf and Hilda, were immensely grateful for their employer’s delegation of heavier tasks, so unlike the fate of many other live-ins on Boston’s Beacon Hill, most of them European immigrants. There was prestige in hiring German, French, and Swedish. But not the Italians, unless one needed marble work or fine woodcarving, nor the Irish, though everybody knew no one did laundry better than they did. Years ago, Caroline’s mother, Rebecca Meriwether Adams—proper and kind-hearted, diminutive in stature but enormously particular—had a white, Chinese rice-linen tablecloth that had been badly stained with red wine. The predicament birthed a favorite family story, which Caroline repeated to Hilda as they sat at the dining room table slipping damask napkins into ivy-embossed silver rings for that evening’s dinner party. The Irish women, working nearby but unseen, heard every word.
From time to time Boston’s gleaming State House dome received a fresh coat of 23.5k gold leaf. Despite canvas-draped scaffolding tiny golden flakes would whirl down Beacon Street. Legend has it, that at the turn of the century, and within hours of his arrival in Boston, a hopeful Italian immigrant thought he saw gold floating in the air. And when he walked into a North End boarding house, the young widowed owner interpreted his “golden hair and shoulders” as an answer to her prayers and a sign that he would be her next husband. They were wed within weeks.
“My mother was absolutely convinced she’d never be able to use that cloth again. Then Pru Walker suggested she borrow their laundress, Mrs. Finnerty, who wasn’t a bit worried about getting that stain out. And she did. It’s perfect. The Irish are positively magical at bringing lost causes back to life.”
Norah and Mary shook their heads.
Hilda, aware of the scrubwomen’s location, felt the need to redeem Mrs. Parker’s somewhat patronizing account.
“Ya, Mrs. Parker, your mother, she was right. Those Irish ladies have already begun their magic. The entry floor shines like the State House dome.”
Kitchen cupboards, even the pantry, and every single closet in the house, were cleared of anything Caroline considered clutter, including her daughter’s red wool coat.
“Imagine, Hilda, the girl only wore it for a season, and that was two years ago. No sense in h
aving it take up space.” With that she handed the coat to her trusted, long-term housekeeper. “And Hilda, put this on the entry settee with the other things, will you, please?”
After the coat had been placed on the settee, just three feet away from where Mary and Norah were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the black-and-white-marble entry floor, Norah whispered, “And wouldn’t that beautiful red coat look grand on my Rosemary?” She dipped her scrub-brush in a bucket of suds and back again to the floor. “Sure and you’ve seen her wearin’ the dull brown tweed for years, and now it’s so threadbare we won’t be handin’ it down to her sisters. And haven’t they said so themselves?” Picturing the pretty faces of her Kay and Rita, she smiled and kept scrubbing. “Oh, God in heaven, wouldn’t I love to be bringin’ that fine coat through me front door for Rosemary.”
Earlier that day, just as the window washers were arriving, Caroline happened to gaze across the street and saw her neighbor, Eleanor Brewster, standing by the elm tree in front of her own house.
“Hello, Eleanor. My, you’re up and about early this morning.”
“Hello, Caroline. I needed a breath of fresh air, and perhaps a little conversation, but it appears you’re rather busy.”
“Simply spring cleaning. I stepped out for fresh air as well. The house positively reeks of pine, which will, of course, be lovely once it calms down. Please, come in for a cup of coffee. Everything’s in such disarray, but we’ll have at least twenty minutes before they get to the kitchen floor and windows.”
“Perfect. Nanny should have the baby dressed and ready for our walk by then. Are you sure you can spare the time, Mrs. Parker?”
“For goodness sake, Eleanor, you must call me Caroline. Every time you say Mrs. Parker, I look for my late mother-in-law.” Caroline smiled. She took her young neighbor by the hand and led her up the front steps. “Actually, you’re doing me a favor. I’m exhausted already, and the day’s only begun.”
Eleanor pulled a chair from the sizable kitchen table, and faintly sighed as she sat down. Caroline set two china cups and saucers on the bare wood, and two plates as well, each with a blue-and-white plaid cloth napkin, butter knife, and teaspoon on top. “I have some homemade raisin brown bread. Why don’t I toast a couple of pieces for us?”
Eleanor Brewster had gratefully squeezed into her non-maternity spring best for yesterday’s shopping expedition, only to have a saleslady at R. H. Stearns Co. inquire, “When is your bundle of joy expected, madam?”
“Thank you, but the baby’s eight months old, and I still look like I’m in a family way.” She took a breath. “I’m so blue. I went shopping for an Easter outfit, but nothing fit properly.” The young mother began to cry.
“Eleanor, you have made an entire person. Your body has done a remarkable feat. The weight will be gone in no time.” Caroline pulled a hankie from her smock pocket and handed it to her and then presented a serving dish with an apple-shaped knob on top and lifted the lid. “May I present for your morning pleasure, prunes? And they’re still warm. Price so enjoys warm prunes. Let’s have these instead.”
“Thank you, Caroline,” Eleanor said with a budding smile.
“So tell me, do you have any special plans for Easter Sunday? If not, your family is certainly welcome to join us.”
Eleanor placed two prunes on her plate. “Sinclair’s parents usually host Easter dinner, but they’re traveling this year. His sister offered, but she lives all the way out in Concord, and the baby doesn’t do well in the car. Motion sickness, I’m afraid. We’d love to join you.”
“I’m delighted.” Caroline raised her coffee cup. “Absolutely delighted.”
Just then Zingy Palowski tapped on the window and waved his index finger, mouthing, “Is it okay to wash these windows now?”
Caroline walked Eleanor to the door and quickly returned to her spring-cleaning effort.
As was her custom when there was housekeeping to be done, Caroline held her dishwater-blonde-gray hair back at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell barrette and wore a full smock over her clothing. Today’s was a deep blue Oriental print, which covered most of her tall, slender frame.
Glancing toward the dining room, Mary caught sight of Caroline coming from the kitchen and whispered to Norah, “Will you look at the Missus, glidin’ about like a swan? Sure and there’s not a bounce in her. Oh, it’d be grand to move like that, but I think you’ve got to be born with it.”
Mrs. Parker approached the two women. “Of course we’ll have a hot lunch for you, about noon. And dessert, there’s just enough bread pudding and cream for two.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Parker,” they said, the unspoken clearly understood between them: Can you believe she’s feedin’ us as well?
Waiting until the lady of the house was out of sight, Mary directly addressed what needed to be said. “And don’t I know what you’re thinkin’ Norah King, that the two of us gave up sweets for Lent? Don’t be worryin’ about eatin’ that bread puddin’. For isn’t it only bread and cream we’ll be eatin’, and not a true dessert, say, Boston Cream Pie with the chocolate and all? And wouldn’t our Lord be disappointed in the two of us if we showed the least bit of ingratitude by declinin’ Mrs. Parker’s Christian hospitality?”
Norah whispered, “Sure and your smooth tongue will talk us right into heaven when Saint Peter asks why we went back on our solemn promise for Lent 1941. I’m dependin’ on it, Mary. You’d best practice that Christian hospitality bit so you’ve got it down pat for Saint Pete.”
Hilda followed closely as Mrs. Parker went throughout the house from one room to another. Presently they crossed the entry hall, and walked right past the settee that held all the items to be given away, including the red coat.
“Imagine, Hilda.” Caroline Parker’s sentences lacked endings, even pauses, and she often drove home a point by repeating it once or twice. Consequently, Hilda seldom knew when she could leave the room and spent a great deal of time shifting from one foot to the other while waiting for an opportunity to escape.
“Imagine,” Caroline said again, looking back at the crimson garment, which lay on top of the pile. “The girl merely wore it for a season. And that was two years ago.”
The girl, Cordelia, was now a junior at Radcliffe and only came home for holidays, the off weekend, and of course, summers at the family’s Martha’s Vineyard oceanfront, eighteen-room, brown-shingled cottage.
In the parlor, Caroline picked up her favorite family photo from the top of a Colonial-style, drop-front mahogany desk. It was of Woodleigh, or “Wooley,” as the family came to call the cottage because, as a little girl, Cordelia couldn’t pronounce its proper name. The image captured, in her brother’s words, “the four family” playing Monopoly at a charmingly worn wicker table on the sweeping front porch. Grammy Parker had snapped the picture when they weren’t looking. “Those days were the best of times,” Caroline wistfully said to Hilda, “when the children were young and my husband wasn’t so tied to the family business. But of course, his father was living then.”
As Caroline put the photo back in place, Hilda inquired, “Will Miss Cordelia be coming home for Easter?”
“Oh yes! She will, Hilda. You and Rolf had best prepare yourselves because she’s asked to bring home some of the gang, as Cordelia insists on calling her friends. Most of her gang live out of town, and it seems that my daughter has become a mother hen. It’s a good thing you thought ahead. I’d completely forgotten to tell you there will actually be twelve of us for Easter dinner, which includes you and Rolf, of course.”
Caroline was insistent about Hilda and Rolf joining the family for holiday dinners. The thought of them eating their Easter meal all alone in the kitchen or in their small apartment over the garage was positively unacceptable.
The aunts looked forward to their traditional errand and a brisk walk across the Common to the Fannie Farmer Candy Shop at Charles and Boylston Streets. After fastidiously selecting everyone’s favorites together—Pecan Di
xies and Mint Meltaways, among others—one sister peeked over the pristine glass case to see how much room was left in the egg-fashioned box, while the other “saved time” and gleefully chose this year’s Easter baskets on her own.
“Mrs. Parker, that would make yourself, Mr. Parker, Pip, Cordelia and her gang.” Hilda’s full face grinned at using the word. “And I assume Mr. Parker’s aunts will be joining us as well?”
“Oh, yes, they will. And you can plan on Aunt Martha walking right through the front door as she has every Easter, with a large egg-shaped box of Fannie Farmer chocolates and of course her sister will bring Easter baskets for the children. I tried to get Aunt Agatha to understand they’re college students now, and it wasn’t really necessary, but she wouldn’t hear of it. You know the aunts, Hilda, no changing their stubborn Yankee minds once they’re made up.”
“So, Mrs. Parker, if my arithmetic is right, that means Miss Cordelia will be bringing four of her friends. Is it possible for us to get their names this week for Easter Sunday’s place cards?”
“Yes, of course. But you’ll need to make the phone call yourself, Hilda. And I suppose Cordelia will expect them to spend the night as well. Oh my, and just as we were finally getting the household in order.” Caroline often longed for the days when her son and daughter were children and life was easier to manage. “Now we have young people coming and going at all times. It’s very difficult to keep everything as orderly as Price prefers. But wasn’t it wonderful of him to suggest we hire those two women from South Boston?”
“Yes, Mrs. Parker.”
He was eager to actually. Mr. Parker was leaving the office late one night and overheard them speak so favorably of Parker Shipping he determined to offer them whatever work he could.
Hilda shifted her weight to the other foot.
The Red Coat Page 1