Caroline adored her husband and delighted in telling anyone who asked about their courtship, “I set my cap for Price the minute we met. He’s the first and only boy I ever kissed.” Their young adult children, Price Irving Parker III (Pip) and Cordelia Anne Parker (Cappy), considered their parents’ love story embarrassingly old fashioned.
Earlier that morning, as Caroline and Hilda were freshening the master bedroom, a piece of stationery slipped out of the small stack of books Hilda held under her arm while dusting Price Parker’s nightstand.
“Mrs. Parker, I’m sorry but this fell from your husband’s Bible, and I don’t know exactly where he had it placed. Do you?”
Caroline Parker received the familiar, though not seen for years, whisper-pink vellum notepaper from her housekeeper’s hand. She perused the correspondence, removed her chain-held glasses, let them fall gently on her chest, and said, “I gave this note to my husband before we were married, at our wedding rehearsal dinner to be exact, and asked him please not to read it until he got home. Shall I read it to you?”
Hilda knew this wasn’t a question, so she stayed put but was not without surprise at being told something so personal. Holding the delicate notepaper in her right hand, Mrs. Parker read aloud.
Our Wedding Day
You in your home, me in mine, will begin that morn as two
Then you as Groom and me as Bride will sweetly say, “I do.”
And at the close of our wedding day,
when the moon says goodnight to the sun
I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine and we’ll end the day as one.
God bless you always my spouse to be with
love and peace and laughter.
And may He bless our days together with, “…happily ever after.”
All my love,
Caroline
June 3, 1922
“And just for fun, Hilda, let’s put it in the first chapter of the book of Ruth, and see if Mr. Parker notices,” she continued. “You see, as part of our wedding vows, I recited Ruth 1:16. Truth be known, it was at his mother’s secret request. ‘Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.’”
Hilda panicked. I’ve never heard of Saint Ruth. I don’t know where the book of Ruth is. Mother of God, please help me.
The housekeeper feared her ignorance of the Bible would reveal the Catholic faith she and her husband did such a good job of hiding, out of deep concern for their jobs. As far as Caroline Parker knew, the one and only church the couple attended was the German First Lutheran Church of Boston. Miraculously, a way out came to Hilda. She picked up the lamp from Mr. Parker’s nightstand with her right hand; her left held a dust cloth and the books. Mrs. Parker retrieved the Bible and placed the pretty paper within the first pages of Ruth.
Relieved, Hilda turned toward her employer and gleamed. “In the old country, when Rolf told me it was time we marry, I said, ‘Ya, but only if you promise we will go to America. Then I’ll marry you. Otherwise, I stay here with Mama and Papa.’ The next day he came back to my papa’s house with two steamship tickets for Boston.”
“Well, I’m delighted Rolf was that determined. How would we possibly manage without you two?” Mrs. Parker said.
Ever since the Parker children were in their adolescent years, Caroline’s husband, Price Irving Parker II had been solely responsible for Parker Shipping with its fleet of cargo ships, employee base of one hundred, and the weekly administrative staff meetings that kept it all going. This required a great deal of time away from home, both around the country and abroad.
Price Parker owned most of the company, having bought out his brother years ago. However, two maiden aunts, his late father’s younger sisters, and his late brother’s three adult children’s trusts still had small interests in Parker Shipping. His niece and nephews seldom asked about the state of the company, other than a polite inquiry at family gatherings; however, the two aunts frequently phoned their nephew to see if there had been any changes they needed to know about.
Price Parker knew their calls were made more out of loneliness than concern for profits, and after bringing them up to date, he would often extend a lunch invitation. “I know you ladies enjoy Italian food. We could go to the North End, or maybe you’d like to go to Chinatown? I’ll come by and pick you up.”
The aged but quite sprightly aunts, Agatha Camellia and Martha Hepatica—their middle names inspired by the language of flowers and their meanings, excellence and confidence—lived together and had a tendency to frequent the same establishments within a safe walking distance. Although both ladies were well traveled—with trips to the Orient, Europe, and most recently, India, with the assistance of a hired companion for such endeavors—they hesitated to venture into Boston’s Chinatown or Italian North End. Neither sister drove, and both were much too thrifty to pay for a cab. They wouldn’t consider taking the subway. “But we don’t mind boarding the trolley once in a while,” they would say.
The Parker household was abuzz with such busyness.
Caroline loved gathering the family together for the holidays, but especially for Easter. She truly enjoyed the tether of getting ready for company. It’s the perfect excuse for getting the house and garden in order and good repair. Preparation was well underway with the many workers at their tasks and the Beacon Hill matron’s focused supervision.
“Hilda, we need to continue sweeping through this house—” All of a sudden Caroline picked the red coat up from the entry settee. “I wonder if Cordelia has forgotten about this.” Just as quickly, she put it down again, giving strict orders. “And Hilda, please see that none of these items go to Saint Vincent de Paul. I don’t trust the Catholic Church. How do we know they don’t sell our things and keep all the money for themselves?”
Hilda answered, “Frau Parker.” Her domestic service had begun in Germany when she was a young girl and Frau came to her more naturally, but she corrected herself immediately. “Mrs. Parker, will the Salvation Army over on Berkeley Street be satisfactory, or shall I send everything to the Morgan Memorial in the South End?”
Hilda was almost out of the entry, but Caroline was merely taking a breath. “Have you seen where some priests of the Catholic Church are now residing?”
“Mrs. Parker, it’s not my place to know where the priests live.”
“Hilda, imagine this, if you will. As of last month, priests are now living in the Andrews mansion. It must cost a fortune to maintain it. William Andrews was out of his mind, giving that splendid home to the Catholics.”
Believing “Catholics” was the last word, Hilda turned, took two steps, and was on her way out of the room with one foot on the threshold, when Caroline continued.
“His children, of course, contested the will. But it was ironclad. Fortunately for those papists, Cardinal O’Connell befriended Mr. Andrews in his later days. And it’s a good thing his Protestant mother isn’t alive to see priests are living in her home.”
Hilda was saddened by Mrs. Parker’s tone when she said “papists,” and remained concerned her employer might one day discover Hilda herself had Catholic roots. Though she claimed the Lutheran church as her own these days, on occasion Hilda would make her way to Holy Trinity Catholic Church and pray the prayer she loved best. Gegrüßet seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade. Hail Mary, full of grace.
As they walked past the parlor, Caroline finally answered Hilda’s question. “Let’s send it all off to the Salvation Army this time.”
Mary and Norah were moving the parlor furniture and rug to one side of the room so they could scrub the other side thoroughly, and overheard Mrs. Parker’s instructions. “Norah,” Mary said quietly. The two women spoke only when no one else was in the room, and even then, very softly. “What harm will it do you to ask Mrs. Parker for the coat? And wouldn’t you be regrettin’ it if you saw that lovely red coat goin’ down the street on another young girl in Southie?”
Norah stopped scrubbing
. “I’m thinkin’ about it, Mary.”
Hilda was standing in the kitchen gathering a white broadcloth café curtain onto a brass rod as Mrs. Parker perused her list of things to do. “There’s so much to accomplish today. It’s positively overwhelming.” And then she whispered, but the Irish women, who seemed privy to everything said that day, still heard her. “When I see these two earnest women on their knees, washing my floors, well, heaven forgive me for complaining.” Caroline’s voice returned to normal. “How am I supposed to finish collecting all these unneeded garments and items, help you with the table setting for tonight, wrap the gifts, have my nap, and be decently dressed and ready to welcome guests for my uncle’s birthday dinner—all in one afternoon?”
The floor washers were still listening. Mary caught Norah’s attention by lightly touching her forearm, and they grinned and rolled their eyes at what the lady of the house considered “overwhelming.”
Mrs. Parker declared, “I’ll simply have to miss my nap.”
Norah rose to her knees, put both hands at the small of her back, and thought of the only people in South Boston who took naps. Babies, cranky children, the elderly, and husbands who work the night shift.
Mary had her own thoughts about Mrs. Parker’s dilemma. God in heaven, and don’t most of Southie’s mothers work the three, four or more nights a week after a long day of carin’ for their children, housecleanin’, shoppin’, cookin’, sewin’, and doin’ all sorts of laundry? Mary leaned over and whispered to Norah. “It’s Saint Caroline, most blessed martyr, we’re workin’ for here.”
“God Almighty, Mary, shhh. She’ll hear ya, and we’ll not see her kindness nor the inside of this grand house again.”
They were hard at work when Norah said just above a whisper, “Sure and John wasn’t one bit happy about the lot of ’em gettin’ the new clothes and shoes as well.” She scrubbed a stubborn scuffmark with both hands on the brush. “But I told himself if it meant we had to eat but two meals a day for the short while, so be it. I’ll not have our children walkin’ into the house of God on Easter Sunday lookin’ like ragamuffins.”
Mary put her wet hands on her apron−covered thighs and leaned forward as she softly answered, “And isn’t it good for their souls, Norah, to be makin’ such a sacrifice durin’ Lent? For didn’t God Almighty sacrifice His only begotten Son so they’d have a church to walk their brand new shoes into on that most Holy Day?”
The women returned to their work and their thoughts. Norah was eager to get back to Southie. I need to make sure everything’s in order for Palm Sunday. Timmy and Tommy are handin’ out the palms after Mass, and Rita’s helpin’ too. If there’s any laundry to be done, and I get home quickly, there’d still be enough time to get it washed, towel dry what needs it, and iron. Mother of God, I hope John didn’t go to the pub today. There’s no money for it, and the trouble. She scrubbed faster.
Mary was entertaining a detour to Brigham’s Ice Cream Shoppe. What would it hurt to spend a nickel, get a scoop of that delicious vanilla, sprinkled with the chocolate jimmies? I’ll buy one for Norah too. All right then, it’s the ten cents I’ll be spendin’, but I’ll tell himself if it wasn’t for Norah King gettin’ me work, there wouldn’t be any extra money. What am I thinkin’? God forgive me. It’s Lent. Okay then, we’ll have a cuppa instead, and share one of those delicious grilled cheese sandwiches. Oh, I’ll have to be convincin’, for isn’t Norah forever in a hurry to get home?
It seemed to Norah King that she had been standing before her would-be benefactor for an eternity, when in fact it only took Caroline Parker a moment’s hesitation. She knew what her mother would have said when a “servant” stepped out of line, but Caroline had a gentler way than her mother, and the term “servant” no longer applied. Norah was a domestic worker employed for the day, and Caroline was greatly moved by the Irish woman’s love for her daughter.
“Why, yes. Of course,” she said, putting her head slightly to one side, and bringing her hands together, folding them palm to palm.
“I’ll have Hilda put the coat in a bag for you.”
CHAPTER 2
A postponement till morning,
a postponement forever.
IRISH PROVERB
MRS. PARKER’S HOUSEKEEPER PUT THE prized red coat in a plain brown bag, concerned if she packaged it in a fancier one, say R. H. Stearns or Lord & Taylor, the parcel might be grabbed right out of the scrubwoman’s hands once she arrived in her own poor neighborhood.
Hilda was mistaken.
South Boston’s residents may have been short of money, but as Norah told her children many a time, “We’re not poor by a long shot. God has richly blessed us with the Church, a home by the sea, neighbors who care, parochial schools, and enough Irish pride to carry on no matter what.” Southie was holy ground to those who called it home, and its citizens were a tight-knit clan that banded together in work, celebration and sorrow.
Blessedly, in the monotony of her work Norah had a secret joy. She loved to bring to mind her neighbors’ triumphant stories.
The tale had been told many times. How Father Kenney was on his way to Morris’ Pharmacy & Fountain at H and Broadway to redeem the ice cream soda pharmacist George McDonough urged him to enjoy on the house, when he saw Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara. James was still walking with a limp and Addie practically sang hello, her joy evident, as she held on to James’ brawny right arm.
As soon as it was within his power to do so, Boston’s much loved and respected Cardinal Cushing, then Archbishop, changed the benevolent 788 Harrison Avenue institution’s name to:
The Home for Catholic Children
Father Kenney remarked, “You look more like a couple about to post their engagement banns than one who’s had a bit of trouble. How’s the leg, James?”
“Fine Father.” James shook the priest’s hand. “Addie and me wanted to express our gratitude for protectin’ our family. What if Social Services had their pitiless intentions met? They’d never have let our five out of the Home for Destitute Catholic Children.”
Father Kenney gently chided, “But aren’t they a good lot we’ve got here at Gate of Heaven? It was Mrs. Connelly’s announcement at the bazaar saved the day. ‘James O’Meara broke his leg loadin’ one of those cargo ships. But he’s on the mend and will soon be workin’ again. Social Services is comin’ their way. We’ve got to do somethin’ to keep ’em from takin’ the children.’”
Addie said, “Rumor has it some busybody made a call. Who would do such a thing?”
Father Kenney knew the truth but kept it alongside the many confidences his heart was accustomed to holding and answered, “Nonetheless, those with some cash reached into their pockets and those without took from their cupboards and iceboxes so yours could be filled.
James said. “Father, did you know that our landlord is lettin’ us stay—says we can make up the rent in time.”
Norah had heard all about the landlord too, how he’d been at the bazaar, declaring, “Sure and we can look after each other without Social Services poking their trouble-makin’ noses where they’re not wanted.” He took his hat off, put money in, and passed it along. His beloved wife had spent most of her childhood in The Home for Destitute Catholic Children, a kindly institution but not home, and she would sometimes weep at the memory of being taken from her caring mother’s one-room apartment, the only affordable place after her father died.
In Southie, Norah happily recalled, as she took a coarse cloth to a stubborn scuffmark, there was never a shortage of rich, “this is the honest-to-God’s truth” recollections.
Last week at the church supper, aged but spry Aidan and Fiona Clancy had their turn.
Scapulars are two small squares of cloth usually stamped or appliquéd with a picture of our Lord, the Blessed Mother, or a saint. They are suspended from sturdy strings, worn under clothing, and thought to bring Divine intervention and protection to all who wear them.
Aidan’s melodious speech held everyone’s atte
ntion “Wasn’t it a grand American wake the fine people of Roscommon gave Mrs. Clancy and me, with the Bishop himself showin’ up with scapulars for the pair of us? And wasn’t it those very scapulars saved our lives during the voyage over? It was a night without a ray of light, and a fierce storm about us. It’s then that Mrs. Clancy and I threw the scapulars into the angry sea as a personal sacrifice. Fiona darlin’, please tell these fine people the miracle of it all.”
Norah smiled at the thought of how quickly his wife had jumped up. “When those scapulars met the water, fast as a virgin runs from an old bachelor, the sea’s anger disappeared. And wasn’t she, for the rest of the voyage, just like a lovin’ mother gently rockin’ us to sleep that night and safely carryin’ us into Boston Harbor the two days later.”
It was picturing the multitude of God’s houses in Southie that made Norah beam in the midst of changing out her scrub bucket water.
South Boston proudly possessed seven magnificent Catholic churches, and on Holy Thursday night, countless people crowded its streets as they made “the walk,” a visit to each parish where they’d light a candle and say a prayer with the highest of hopes.
Norah went to Mass every morning and as a known woman of faith she was often approached to give a word of assurance, most recently by a young lady who feared the pending war would take her sweetheart’s life.
“Now don’t be cryin’, darlin’,” Norah comforted. “There’s nothin’ that happens that our Lord, his Father and the Holy Ghost don’t know about. And wouldn’t the Blessed Mother be after all three if she thought they were neglectin’ your prayers?”
Though talking with Mary at any length was prohibited while they worked, it didn’t prevent Norah from bringing to mind one of Mary’s hilarious conversations from the past.
Mary had exaggerated, “This year’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade is bringin’ Una Mahoney’s boastin’ to a whole new bloody level. She’s been tellin’ the entire world, ‘Now that my Jake is on the force, aren’t we after callin’ him Officer Mahoney and won’t one and the same be marchin’ at the very front, not bringin’ up the back like every Tom, Dick and Harry? And won’t his father be tellin’ anyone who’ll listen, see that handsome one? He’s me own.”
The Red Coat Page 2