There was never a shortage of music either, as much a part of Southie as the pubs, churches, sports clubs and beaches. It was almost impossible to go down any street without hearing a whistle, song or fiddle, and from homes with a penny or two, the pleasure of a piano.
It was the sense of one for all and all for one that made Norah never want to live anywhere else, even Beacon Hill. In Southie, Catholic parents wholeheartedly supported parochial education, Mary being one of the most enthusiastic.
“And won’t my twin girls be Irish dancin’ together at Saint Augustine’s minstrel show? And aren’t we havin’ a grand time sewin’ their lovely costumes with Mother Superior herself takin’ up a needle and embroiderin’ J.M.J. (Jesus, Mary, and Joseph) where you’d see a label if there was one.”
South Boston was not poor by a long shot.
Mrs. Parker promptly walked up to her housekeeper. “No need for the brown bag now, Hilda, I’ve found something better. Can you imagine? Cordelia had this perfectly good garment bag lying on the floor at the back of her closet! Honestly, how do girls without mothers manage?” She took the coat from her housekeeper, carefully hung it on a wooden hanger, buttoned it from top to bottom, and without revealing her secret gift, tucked a lace trimmed monogrammed hankie in the right pocket.
Caroline’s mother, Rebecca, had passed away only four months before, leaving the brand new R-embroidered Irish linen hankie behind. She then placed the coat in the recently discovered Jordan Marsh garment bag.
Norah and Mary had finished scrubbing the sizeable marble entryway floor and stone solarium floor, and moved on to the quarter-cut cherry hardwood floor of the butler’s pantry, a long, well-appointed service room between the spacious kitchen and formal dining room.
The upper walls on both sides of the butler’s pantry were lined with beveled-glass cupboards filled to capacity with china and crystal. Exquisite tureens and pitchers were artfully displayed on the ebony marble countertops while silver platters and trays leaned against the hand-painted, green Italian tiled walls between cupboard and counter. Below, deep drawers and cabinets held silverware, table linens, place cards and holders, salt cellars with tiny silver spoons, crystal knife rests, fingerbowls, and at Mr. Parker’s request, toothpicks, which Mrs. Parker had placed in a small, cut-crystal pig standing on his hind legs. She hoped the elegance of the crystal and whimsy of the pig would soften what she considered vulgar. Two of the lower cabinets contained a bevy of select liquors.
They were at the very end of rinsing this last floor, making their work day over, when Mrs. Parker, whose delicate, French White Blossom Perfume preceded her, appeared in the doorway of the butler’s pantry with the garment bag over her arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your names.”
Both women, on their knees, looked up at the same time.
“Mary Callanan.”
“Mrs. John Joseph King, Norah.”
“Well, Mrs. King, here’s a marvel for you. I found the very bag the coat came in.”
Norah stood, and for the second time in Mrs. Parker’s presence, dried her hands on the crisp folds of her apron.
“Mrs. King, if you wanted, you could tell your daughter you purchased it yourself.”
“And wouldn’t the tellin’ of it be puttin’ a curse on the very blessin’ God has sent my way, to be lyin’ about that beautiful red coat? With all due respect, Mrs. Parker, I won’t be tellin’ her any such thing. The blessin’ will be twice as rich when Rosemary learns of your generous heart by bein’ a fine lesson for her own. And wouldn’t she want to be prayin’ for you after doin’ such a grand, kind thing? On the odd chance there’s more than one Mrs. Parker our Lord’s receivin’ prayers for I’m sorry, but I don’t know your proper name.”
Being careful not to step on the wet floor, Mrs. Parker kept her feet on the threshold and leaned as far forward as she could manage, the garment bag held high, and handed it into Norah’s expectant arms.
“Caroline,” she answered.
CHAPTER 3
The longest road out is the shortest road home.
IRISH PROVERB
THE TWO WOMEN USUALLY WALKED with a matched pace, quick and purposeful, and only a little slower on the way home from work. Today was different. Norah was tired but her step was lively. She could hardly wait to give the coat to Rosemary.
“This isn’t a day for strollin’, now is it, Mary?” Norah held the garment bag even closer, patting it twice to her chest.
Mary and Norah were about the same age, late forties, their children all went to Gate of Heaven School, and both husbands worked as laborers, Norah’s John at Brown-Wales Steel and Mary’s Frank at the Gillette factory. All four were from the west of Ireland and enjoyed bantering about which county was the best, with John Joseph King forever getting the last word. “And if either of ya’s or anyone you know or are related to or have heard about or those people I just mentioned have heard about, has ever caught forty fish in one net, all of them at the one time, speak now.”
No one in the pubs where he regularly put forth the same challenge ever contested his claim to the abundance of fish in Galway waters.
Mary hooked her arm through Norah’s as they hurried to the train station. “And don’t I understand why you’re actin’ like a sixteen-year-old girl after her first kiss, scurryin’ back, scared she’ll miss the second. I’m sure Rosemary will be right where you left her, Norah.”
“And aren’t you the clever one with your sixteen-year-old comparisons?” Norah smiled. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive a friend for bringin’ you along so fast? But don’t you know this coat is cryin’ out for its rightful owner? We’ll go to Brigham’s another time, after Lent, and then you can have your ice cream with the chocolate jimmies.”
With that Norah stopped and looked at her friend. “I can only imagine the look on me darlin’ girl’s face when she sees her own mother comin’ through the door carryin’ this grand bag over her arm. And that’s only the beginnin’. Sure and she deserves every red fiber.”
They picked up where they left off, Mary at her own insistence on the outside, closest to the street and Norah on the inside, because of the coat. “God forbid anything should happen to it now, Norah, like the splashin’ up of mud, or you accidentally droppin’ it and a car or bus runnin’ right over that Jordan Marsh bag.”
Mary usually did most of the talking, and Norah often told her husband John, “I get the occasional word in but that Mary, angel of a friend that she is, could talk the ears off a brass monkey.”
Today, for the first time in their long friendship, Norah was the talker. “Didn’t God and all His angels know I couldn’t look after the eight children without Rosemary’s help? That’s why He sent her first, ahead of the others, and she never complains. As God is my judge, she never complains. Not like that cheeky Bridget O’Leary, complainin’ about school, complainin’ about havin’ to look after her brother and sisters, complainin’ about her poor mother’s cookin,’ and worst of all, complainin’ about being Irish. If her Da ever heard the way she talks to her darlin’ mother, don’t you know he’d push a whole bar of Fels-Naptha soap in where kind words should be comin’ out?”
The long, yellow, pungent bar of Fels-Naptha Soap was used for laundry, floor washing, and generally anything that required a strong solvent to remove soil and stains.
Saint Augustine’s Church
SOUTH BOSTON, MASS.
Scollay Square was the location of primarily risqué entertainment. Eager patrons ran the gamut from blue collar to Harvard boys, couples, and Beacon Hill gents. The Old Howard Theater was host to vaudeville acts and most famous for its beautiful burlesque queens. The Crawford House packed ’em in, for three shows a night, and everyone came with one thing in mind: “Seeing dancer, Sally Keith, make her tassels go in two different directions.”
Mary Callanan had her own long-winded contribution to the going−over of Bridget Kathleen O’Leary. “And wasn’t my Frank right there in Saint Augu
stine’s, tryin’ to say his penance when he overheard Bridget tell, not ask her poor mother, the two of them havin’ this conversation right there in the pew, mind you.” Mary put her hand to her chest. “Bridget told her that she was goin’ downtown alone to meet some fella. And her poor mother, God bless her, tryin’ to convince Bridget otherwise by bringin’ the Blessed Mother into the whole mess. Didn’t Mrs. O’Leary use her daughter’s full christenin’ name, sayin’, ‘Bridget Kathleen O’Leary, can you imagine Holy Mary doing such a thing? Meetin’ a man all alone? Next you’ll tell me he’s meetin’ you at Scollay Square, and won’t that be a fine kettle of fish?’”
Norah made the sign of the cross. “Heaven forbid a Catholic girl would be in a place like Scollay Square with all those honkytonks and chippies. You don’t think she’d go that far, do you, Mary? How in God’s name did it come to this?”
“Well, Norah, according to Mrs. Nolan, who lives downstairs from the O’Learys, wasn’t Bridget introduced to Mr. Louis Kolodynski through one of her classmates over there at South Boston High School? And didn’t she, tell her poor, unfortunate mother, ‘I’m goin’ Ma,’ who in all probability was cursin’ the day she let Bridget go to that public school with all those independent thinkin’ Protestants. And wasn’t I tellin’ my Frank, respectfully of course, Norah, for won’t our children be disrespectin’ their father if they see their mother doin’ the same? ‘Well,’ I said, the O’Learys have enough trouble without you, Frances Terrence Callanan adding to their misery by reportin’ Bridget’s every offense.’ And didn’t I remind him what Father Sweeney said about gossip last Sunday, ‘If you’re not a part of the problem or the solution, it’s not yours to tell.’”
Cast Your Vote for the Mayor with a Heart James Michael Curley
The illustrious, four-term mayor of Boston, governor, U.S. congressman, and son of Irish immigrants, James Michael Curley, was a passionate advocate for working classes, the poor, and immigrants. Mayor Curley took a risk when he gave an earnest but fearfully uncertain man the help he needed to pass a civil service exam. The mayor stood in his stead and was caught and imprisoned for five months. Voters perceived Mayor Curley’s illegal act as benevolent and selfless. Already popular, his favor skyrocketed, and he was reelected while still serving time in prison.
Norah shook her head and gently laughed. “And where would that put our conversation, Mary Margaret?”
Mary went right on to the next subject. “Did you hear of the kindness Mayor Curley did last week?” she inquired as they walked into the subway entrance. “Our most honorable mayor was on his way home from some posh affair when he decided to stop by the State House. And wasn’t himself stunned to see the building full of Irish women, his very own, on their hands and knees, scrubbing the floors and stairs, every one, happy for the work? Well, Bridey Sullivan told me that when Mayor Curley appeared the women stopped, thrilled to see him up close, and every one got on her feet and offered a ‘Good evening, and God bless you, Mayor Curley.’ Then himself stood at the bottom of that grand staircase and said, ‘Dear sisters of Erin, please know that this is the last time you will ever be scrubbing the floors of the State House of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as you are tonight.’ God in heaven Norah, some of the women misunderstood, thinkin’ it was the end of their jobs, which of course, distressed our mayor. ‘My dear ladies,’ he said, ‘there’s no need for alarm. You still have employment. I only mean to say that tomorrow your situations will be much improved. Good night, and God bless the work.’ And didn’t Mayor Curley make good on his word and order his staff to provide a mop, and one of those fancy buckets that wrings them out, to every last one of his ‘splendid workers,’ as he called them? I heard this from Moira O’Toole, who works days, dustin’ and sweepin’ about the place.”
“Splendid, is it?” Norah raised her brows and smiled.
Their mutual laughter rang soft as a tea table bell while they climbed down the steep subway stairs, went through the turnstiles, and stood waiting on the platform for the train home.
“You’ve got to watch yourself now, Norah,” Mary said as she held on to her. “Have you not heard of the woman who was pushed down onto the tracks by a man gone mad? Sure and it’s the God’s truth. Here, step back a bit more, and we won’t be givin’ the devil a chance.” Mary returned to their previous conversation. “To be quite honest Norah, I don’t think I’d want to be usin’ a mop. You’re so far away from the work that way.”
Norah lightheartedly replied, “Well it’s done then. Parker Shipping has provided just what we need, scrub brushes, rags, and buckets. It’s comin’ now. The train is comin’. Can you hear it? Will you step up with me, Mary? Or is that devil of a mad man still runnin’ about?” The two women linked arms and laughed again.
They left the train station and walked back home in good spirits—Norah’s, at 567 E. 8th Street, was the middle floor flat of a three-family apartment house and would come first with Mary’s single-family house farther past. The two women were only four blocks away and their neighborhood bustled with Saturday activity.
“Oh, will you look at that Robert Donnelly ‘dimple on the chin, devil within’ is what me mother said of fellas that handsome with the cleft and all,” Norah observed as they approached a group of boys playing a rowdy game of kick the can in the middle of the street.
“But, Norah, he’s such a good boy. Isn’t his younger brother, the one with the cerebral palsy, almost always at his side, as he is right now?”
The Donnelly boys—thirteen-year-old Buddy in his wooden wheelchair, who’d been in the house all day and sixteen-year-old Robert, his hands gripped securely on the chair’s handles, just home from his job at the shipyard—taunted their favorite players. “Come on, Sean! Ya grandmother could do better than that. Come on.” Robert shouted at his best friend.
Buddy stammered, “L-lefty R-r-r-ryan, s-s-s-start ’em cr-cr-cryin’!” with a big smile as he involuntarily rocked back and forth, his palsied hands turned inward.
“Robert’s not the one bit embarrassed about pushin’ that poor crippled boy about. I’ve seen it with me own eyes. For those who stare, he makes introductions; for those who glare and make fun, God help ’em. With all respect for your dear mother’s wisdom, I’d have to say ‘dimple on the chin, saint within’ for that one.”
They passed Crowley’s Corner Grocery, where Mrs. Crowley’s elderly father sat outside on a wooden crate, grinning toothless from ear to ear, and tipped his hat as the two women walked by. “Fine afternoon we’re havin’, ladies.”
“Yes, Mr. Gowan, spring’s here at last,” Mary said.
“And just in time for Holy Week,” Norah added.
Once they were past the grocery store, Mary advised, “You’ve got to watch those Crowley’s when they’ve got somethin’ on the scale. Last week, I was buyin’ cold cuts for the family. Frank likes the fried bologna with onions, havin’ it sliced real thin−like, makes it go further. Anyway, didn’t Alice Crowley try and hide her thumb with that waxed paper they use? And didn’t I say, ‘Oh Alice dear, your pretty thumb’s pressin’ on me bologna. Sure you’ll be chargin’ more for the beauty you’re addin’?’ And didn’t she turn two shades of red quicker than the rent’s due?” Mary tapped Norah’s sleeve. “Just be watchful when you’re tradin’ there.”
“I will, Mary, but we usually trade at Dwyer’s. And this year, I’m surprisin’ the family with a leg of lamb for their Easter dinner. I’ve been savin’ and it’s ordered now, with a deposit. I’m afraid there’s no turnin’ back. God help us, if himself gets angry about the cost.” Norah’s fingertips instinctively reached for the silver Celtic cross that hung from a chain around her neck and rested on her heart.
“And aren’t we the grand lady, havin’ lamb for your Easter dinner? Sure and the whole lot of ya’s deserve it. John’ll be fine, Norah. Don’t worry.”
Here and there, the smell of early dinners drifted toward them—roasted meat, boiled vegetables, and from the house where the
Mister was out of work, the distinct aroma of poverty-stew: potatoes, onions and water. “I don’t know about you,” Mary said, taking a long sniff, “but my kids love the stuff. Frank won’t let me make it unless I keep the windows closed. It’s pride. Doesn’t want the neighbors thinking—” Her lengthy explanation was cut short.
“Tenement to let, apply within, if I move out, let—Judith—move in,” echoed from the other side of the street as girls jumped rope and several more sing-sang the familiar jingle. Norah longingly thought of her second-to-youngest daughter, and her hand briefly touched the cross again. My angel, Noni, was so good at jumpin’ rope.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mary’s kidding. “Hand that coat over to me Norah King, and join the girls, why don’t ya? For aren’t you a woman who knows how to jump? Haven’t I seen it with me own eyes, jumpin’ only God knows how high when your Mister asks for his tea?”
“You’re mistaken, Mary Callanan. It’s not jumpin’ to himself’s request that you’re seein’. It’s me own way of doing the occasional callisthenic, and isn’t that how I’m able to keep this girlish figure of mine?” Norah grinned. “Sure and you’re just looking for an excuse to get your hands on this elegant coat I’m carryin’.”
The two women were now approaching what was locally known as “widow’s row.” One after another, four houses in all, without a husband about the place.
A dog’s yip pierced the din of children playing. “Ah, gone on with ya’s,” old widow McCormick chided her noisy brown mutt, which she preferred to call “a rare breed of Irish Setter.”
The Red Coat Page 3