The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  “Do you think your husband would meet with me?”

  “No, Father. And he’d be furious if he knew I was here talkin’ to you as I am.”

  “So tell me, does Mr. King still go to work every day for the good of your family? And do I understand that he is indeed coming home at night?”

  “Yes, Father. No one could ever accuse John Joseph King of not bein’ a hard worker. And he spends every night in his own bed.”

  Father Kenney got up from his desk, pulled a large volume from the bookcase behind him, thumbed through it, and said, “Have you ever heard of mental reservation?”

  “No, Father. I can’t say that I have.”

  “Here it is. Now listen closely, Norah. ‘Mental reservation, adding certain modifications to solve the dilemma of keeping a secret without actually lying.’ Do you understand, Norah? The secret of what goes on in your home must be kept for the benefit of your children and the pride of your husband. These family situations are common. You’re not alone. And please be comforted in knowing that your days in heaven will make up for it. Now let’s have a prayer.” He crossed the room. “Will you kneel with me, Norah King?”

  The forty-six-year-old wife and mother knelt a decent distance before the priest who was already on his knees. Together they made the sign of the cross. Father Kenney continued, “Our Father in heaven, please help this troubled woman with her wifely duties. Help her to keep her husband happy and children safe. And as she endeavors to keep the peace, help her to accept mental reservation in place of what she has so innocently misconstrued as lying. Let us not forget that Your own beloved Mother suffered for the greater good. Please, Almighty God, in your infinite mercy, give her landlords less curiosity and no thought of eviction.” Father Kenney whispered, “We’ll end now, Norah.” They closed their prayer as they had begun it. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” After meeting with Father Kenney, Norah reluctantly practiced mental reservation, but only when there was no way around it.

  As Norah walked down the narrow passageway between her apartment building and the one next door she thought, Mother of God, last night him comin’ home so late, three sheets to the wind and angry ’cause dinner wasn’t waitin’ on the table at ten o’clock. I can take it for myself, but when he goes after the children I can’t bear it.

  When her husband was what Norah called “out of sorts,” she remained calm, stood between John and the children, and gently coaxed him, as she did last night, into the kitchen for a cup of tea and something to eat.

  Norah could still hear his high-pitched mock. “‘Can I fix you a cup of tay, John? Would you like a little somethin’ to eat too? I’ve some cold meat and potatoes. Let me fix you a plate now.’ Why don’t you let me fix you a plate, Norah King, right over your once-pretty head.” The “once pretty” was a drunken lie, and by God’s grace Norah didn’t take it to heart. It was the least of her troubles.

  Unbeknownst to Norah, soon after she had left for Beacon Hill that morning, accompanied by her son John Michael who had an early work call, her husband walked into the kitchen, where his two oldest sons were still eating breakfast. John Joseph King was of average height, had a strong lean build, fair skin, thick, coffee-colored curly hair, intense light blue eyes, and dimples. He still wore his clothes from the night before.

  “Morning, Dad,” Patrick and Joe said one after the other.

  “Boys,” he said, raising a half-full pint of whiskey in the air and swallowing a mouthful. “And where are you two takin’ yourselves this fine spring day?” He took another swig. “Is there a pretty girl waitin’ for either one of ya’s?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his mouth.

  Rosemary entered the kitchen with her younger sisters, Kay and Rita. “Good morning, Dad,” she said, while pulling an apron over her head.

  Her father answered, “If it isn’t the sweet Rose of Tralee.” He had a stale smell of tobacco and alcohol, and it churned her stomach.

  Taking a seat with his back to Rosemary, John Joseph put the bottle of whiskey on the table and said, “Make yourself useful, Patrick, and pour your father a glass. ‘Bite the hair of the dog who bit you’ is the best cure for a hangover.”

  Patrick, sitting across from his father, glanced at Rosemary, who closed her eyes and shook her head. Patrick sheepishly suggested, “Ah, Dad, maybe it would be better to wait until tonight?”

  “Tell me I didn’t hear what I think I did, Patrick? You pathetic, kinky-haired, skinny nothin’, you, suggestin’ to me, your father, when he should and shouldn’t take a drink? Jesus!” He pounded his fist on the table. Milk and tea spilled, sugar seemed to be everywhere and the whiskey bottle fell, every last drop absorbed in the tablecloth.

  John King jumped up, knocked over the chair he’d been sitting in, grabbed Patrick’s shirt with one hand, and awkwardly tried to remove his belt with the other. Frustrated, he punched Patrick in the mouth, and blood spurted on both of them.

  “Dad, please stop!” Joe shouted, while grabbing his brother out of his father’s grip.

  “Joe, let go of him, or you’re next,” his father demanded. Joe didn’t.

  Rosemary pulled her sisters out of the kitchen, but this time she urged Kay to sneak out of the house and get their brother John Michael from the pharmacy. “Joe and Pat will need all the help they can get, Kay. Hurry!” Rosemary said. Then she and Rita hid.

  “I’d hit you with me bare hands again if I didn’t need them to support this poor excuse of a family.”

  The boys ran out of the kitchen.

  When John Joseph entered the hallway, they were nowhere to be seen. “You’ll answer to me, mind my words, you’ll answer to me,” he shouted, running frantically from room to room. “Don’t I work meself to the bone in that sweatin’ hot foundry? And what thanks do I get? Me, John Joseph King, forced off me family’s property because I’m the younger brother.”

  He ended up in the living room, stumbled over to the windows and pulled down the shades. His bitterness about not inheriting the family farm back in Ireland came out only when he was drunk. Sober, he never talked about it. Except to Norah. His rant continued. “Now I’m pourin’ molten steel down at that feckin’ foundry because I’ve got to feed the likes of you. I never asked for any of you. All I wanted was to lay with me wife who too soon became your mother. Go hIfreann leat! To hell with you!”

  This was the first time John King had ever made an implication about sex during one of his tirades. Rosemary, out of concern he would go even further, stepped forward from her hiding place behind the couch. He saw her from the corner of his eye, lunged in her direction and slapped her hard across the face.

  “You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you?” His voice became shrill. “‘My name is Rosemary Virginia King and I’m going to be a social worker. I’m almost finished with my classes. Oh Ma, can you imagine?’” He mockingly put his hand on his hip. “‘Your daughter, a social worker?’ Social worker, my arse, who in the hell do you think you are?”

  He dragged Rosemary by her hair into the hallway, closing the living room door behind them. “Get out here now, ya demons. Now, I say.” Fifteen-year-old Rita appeared in the hallway, scared of what might happen to Rosemary if she didn’t.

  Rita spoke first. “Dad, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Ah, don’t play the innocent with me, yer trollops,” he screamed. “If you wore skirts that short in Ireland, sure and they’d tar and feather you from head to toe. I’ve seen it done to better than the likes of you.”

  John Joseph King’s hell-scripted words stuck to the sides of his children’s hearts, made their way into his children’s dreams, and birthed nightmares that, for some of them, lasted a lifetime and wormed their way into the next generation’s slumber.

  “I’ve not had me breakfast. And it’s your entire goddammed fault.” He spoke in a mocking tone again. “‘The children need new shoes, John. And hasn’t Mr. Parker asked Mary and me to
do up the floors of his home? It’s just the bit of cash we need.’” He tried to grab Rita and missed. She bolted, running as fast as she could, heart pounding. “Get back here for your due punishment now! Thanks to you, your mother has to work on a Saturday, and I have to go without bein’ properly fed.”

  Just then, two-at-a-time footsteps could be heard coming up the flight of stairs. Rosemary knew it was Johnny. The front door burst open. John Joseph grabbed Rosemary by the hair again. Johnny, quick on his feet, ran down the hall, pulled his father off Rosemary, and stepped back, gaining his balance when John Joseph put his hands around Johnny’s throat. “You goddam blackguard. Did you really think you could take me on? I’m twice the man you’ll ever be. Get ready to meet your Maker, boyo. ’Cause you’re on your way.”

  Kay rushed through the open doorway, pushed the door closed behind her, and ran straight to Rosemary’s side. John Joseph’s grip on Johnny’s neck grew tighter, and the sixteen-year-old began to turn blue. The other boys suddenly appeared.

  Joe, the oldest, yelled “Dad, you don’t know what you’re doing. Stop!” He pulled on his father’s right arm while Patrick pulled on the left. As the three girls clung to each other, Rosemary whispered, “Thank heaven Timmy and Tommy are still outside playing.”

  Kay answered, “Don’t let him hit me, Ro. Please don’t let him hit me.”

  John Joseph calmed down enough for the boys to let go. He glared at Johnny. “You’ll pay for interferin’.” Then he went to his bedroom and slammed the door with all his might. The children knew from experience there was a good possibility he’d sleep until the next morning. They didn’t want to think about what would happen if he woke.

  Johnny was sitting on the floor with bent knees, his back against the wall and head in his hands. Rosemary tapped his arm. “Hey, kiddo.”

  Johnny looked up. “Thanks for saving me.” His hair was disheveled, and his shirttails were out. “Jesus, I gotta get out of here. I hate to say it, Ro, but you’ll have to start looking for another knight in shining armor. I’m shipping out.”

  “What? Are you telling me you’re going to join the Navy? Johnny, that’d break Mum’s heart.”

  “Listen, Ro. I’d rather be killed by a Kraut than my own father.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Do you want me to run an iron over your shirt before you go back to work? It looks like you slept in it.”

  The Kings’ apartment had three bedrooms, one for the parents, one for the girls, and another for the boys.

  “No, I’ve got a fresh one. Thanks anyway.” He slowly walked down the hallway to the room he shared with his brothers.

  “We need to get this place picked up,” Rosemary said. “Joe, Patrick, you can put the furniture back in place. Rita, why don’t you clear the table. And Kay, if you could get the dishes started, I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to run to the corner and get Mum some milk for her tea. If the little boys come home, don’t tell them anything other than they need to be very quiet. If they’re hungry, you can make them a sandwich. Jam or peanut butter.”

  Joe, Patrick, Kay, and Rita did exactly as their older sister asked. Rosemary took the apron off, smoothed her hair, grabbed her brown tweed coat from a peg rack by the back door, and went out the front door, down the stairs, out of the building, and up the street to Crowley’s Grocery & Fine Meats. Shipping out. Oh God, he can’t do that. He can’t.

  The day had been a long one for Norah and cares aside, she was glad to be home. She stepped into the small back hallway. Please let himself be sleepin’. I’ve no strength for a row. None.

  Norah spotted a small package resting on the first step of the stairway. It was waxed paper-wrapped and tied with a blue ribbon. Her name was written in their landlady’s pretty hand, on a torn piece of brown paper tucked under the bow. She picked it up, and a delicious aroma revealed the contents: Marie Flynn’s homemade seedcake. Norah softly sighed with relief, knowing it had been placed there as a gift of reassurance and understanding. Sacred Heart of Jesus, please bless Marie with that baby we’re always prayin’ for. Forgive me for avoidin’ the Flynns and thinkin’ the worst. If they saw this Jordan Marsh bag, they’d believe John and I had more money than we let on to and raise the rent. God bless ’em. They have no way of knowin’ how hard it is for us to keep our heads above water.

  CHAPTER 5

  A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures.

  IRISH BLESSING

  TRUTH WAS NORAH MISSED ENTERING through the front door, which brought with it a feeling of gratitude and wellbeing. Today, the back door was safer and would give her a chance to hide the red coat before facing her husband. Sure and he’ll see it as a castoff from “those that ran us out of Ireland” and demand it be returned with nothing less than a speech by me, admitting error of judgment. Norah felt certain the Parker family of Beacon Hill wasn’t directly responsible for the Irish famine, but John Joseph felt certain that anyone with an English surname was.

  Every house has its recognizable sounds, and 567 E. 8th Street was no different. There were stair sounds, floor sounds, plumbing sounds, the rattling of brass mailboxes on the entry wall, the bump of a baby carriage, bike or wagon being pulled over a threshold, doors opening and closing, the tapping of a wet umbrella, or thud of snow boots dropping to the floor, and the sound of footsteps.

  Kay, sitting quietly in the kitchen, heard those surefooted but almost dance-like steps, with rhythm so even−paced. Mumma’s home. She ran to meet her halfway down the flight of stairs. “You’d best have a light foot, Mum. He’s sleeping. We’ve had a horrible time of it.”

  Norah briefly touched the shoulder of her second born, Barbara Catherine, who everyone called Kay. “Stay here on the stairs with me for a minute darlin’. Let’s pray and ask Saint Jude to help us, for isn’t he the saint of all that’s impossible, God forgive me.”

  Kay, only fourteen months younger than Rosemary, was the other half of what their father called “Rose Red and Snow White” with black hair, porcelain skin, and violet-blue eyes. “The two of you are beauties,” he’d say. “Sure and I’ll have to put your brothers guard by the doors day and night to keep all the young bucks away.”

  Kay had a head for numbers and a heart for getting ahead. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother the good news. Placing her hands on Norah’s forearms, Kay spoke quickly. “Mum, Rita, Ro, and I just got back from confession, and we saw Sister Josephine at church. She says I have a good chance for a scholarship to the Katharine Gibbs School. Isn’t that swell? They award two of them for accounting.”

  Katharine Gibbs School was a private for-profit institution of higher learning for the career education of young women “With high standards of dress and decorum, the secretarial schools cultivated an image of sophistication and efficiency…. Its legions of graduates, once known as “Katie Gibbs girls,” were long considered the elite of the clerical field, renowned for their professionalism, poise, and polished appearance.”

  The Boston Globe

  “That’s grand, Barbara Catherine. We’ll talk more about it later.” Disappointed, Kay let go of her mother’s arms.

  Norah was delighted by Kay’s news, but eager to give Rosemary her gift before John Joseph woke. Now, we’ve an even blessin’ for the sisters. Barbara Catherine with her scholarship hopes and Rosemary with her much-needed coat.

  “I’ll pray, Mum. Do you want to sit down?”

  “No darlin’. I’m afraid I’d never get up.”

  They bowed their heads.

  “Please, Saint Jude, help my father, John Joseph King, if you don’t know him, to stop the drinking.”

  Norah interrupted. “Ask him darlin’ to have your Da in a good mood when he wakes. And ask that he not wake until after we’ve all had a peaceful supper.”

  “God in heaven, Mum, I’m trying to say the prayer.” Kay sighed. “And please, Saint Jude, if you don’t think it’s asking too much, let there be peace in our home tonight. Please protect our family. Thank you for
standing by us in these hard times. And thank you for hearing our prayer.”

  Mother and daughter made the sign of the cross and then each brought her hands together, fingers up, pointed toward heaven, and thumbs crossed, as they’d both been taught by nuns, who admonished generations, “Don’t be folding your hands intertwined in the lazy Protestant way.” They opened their eyes on “Amen.”

  Norah wasn’t necessarily affectionate, but tears came to her for the way Kay could say a prayer. She took her daughter’s right hand in her own and kissed the back of it. “God bless you, Barbara Catherine. Now let’s get up those stairs before himself wakes.” They tiptoed. “How long has he been down?” Norah whispered.

  “I’m not sure, a while now. It was pretty bad, Mum. Johnny says he’s joining the Navy as soon as he can. He said he’d rather fight the Krauts than be killed by his own father. You’ve got to talk to him, Mum. I think he means it.”

  Norah stood on the landing at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath at the thought of making everything right for her children, cooking supper, and contending with John Joseph when he woke. As Kay opened the door for her mother, it squeaked. “It’s okay, Mum. On second thought, I think the dead will wake before Dad does.” She eyed the Jordan Marsh bag.

  “Don’t be askin’ any questions, Barbara Catherine. But what I will say is what’s in this bag is not meant for you but will perhaps, one day come to you.”

  Norah wanted to surprise Rosemary, so she folded the garment bag in half and half again, opened the pantry door, which was next to the back door, and placed the bag on the top shelf. Led by the aroma of onions and butter, she walked into the tidy kitchen.