The modern tablecloth, not Norah’s taste at all, was the first thing John Michael chose to buy with the money he earned as a soda jerk.
A starched simple white curtain hung on the window over the sink, and could be pushed back on either side when there was a need for fresh air or for calling the younger children inside. An ironed red print cloth covered the table already set for supper with heavy, white dinnerware, tumblers for the younger children; teacups and saucers for Norah, John and the older children; assorted silverware and a candle. There was always a candle, as there had been when Norah was a girl at her own parents’ table. Last week, her husband questioned it. “Don’t I pay the electric bill every month? We need a candle too?”
“It’s nothin’ to do with electricity, John. The glow of it calms the family and lights the way to good conversation.”
“Fine then, have your candle.”
Before Norah was married, she bought a silverware service for eight, piece by piece, when she got her wages. She never imagined there would be more than eight in her family. Subsequently, she’d bartered for more pieces at various rummage sales.
The stove was big, black, and iron, requiring coals and wood for heat. And the Sacred Heart’s framed image had been placed on a wall closest to the table while palm fronds woven into a cross hung over the doorway that led to the rest of the good-sized apartment.
Rosemary, wearing an apron and standing at the sink, slowly turned around at the sound of her mother’s footsteps. “Hi Mum, I’ve put the water on for tea.”
“And you’ve got onions brownin’—” Norah gasped and brought both hands over her heart, horrified at what she saw.
Rosemary’s eyes were tear-filled, and the right side of her face was red and slightly swollen. “He hit you didn’t he? What set him off? Kay, go keep your sister Rita company. I need to talk with Rosemary. Go on, darlin’.” Norah cupped her hand beneath Rosemary’s wounded face.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Mum. What’s done is done.” She tightened the apron bow. “I’ve no idea what you’re planning on cooking for dinner tonight, but I knew you wouldn’t object to beginning with onions and butter. It just seemed right to fill the house with a good smell.”
Maybe because she couldn’t hold them in any longer, but probably because the love of her mother was there, Rosemary’s tears fell. And Norah’s tears met them. Neither mother nor daughter acknowledged their sorrow verbally, but went about the task of pushing back some of the supper dishes to make room for tea.
Norah sat down and slipped her coat off, letting it fall back on the chair. “So tell me, Rosemary Virginia, where are your brothers keepin’ themselves?”
“Joe and Pat went to Sully’s to see if they could get some work, Mum.”
Sullivan’s Surplus was locally known as “Sully’s Junkyard,” and Francis Sullivan was a genius at turning scrap anything into profit. From time to time, he’d hire the King brothers to sort, always giving them the same warning. “I’m payin’ ya by the job, not by the hour. Money’s the same if ya sort fast or sort slow. But if ya want to work here again, I’d recommend ya’s work hard and fast.”
Rosemary poured boiling water into a floral porcelain teapot, a wedding gift to her parents from Norah’s employer at the time. While the orange pekoe steeped, she brought down the matching gold-rimmed teacups and saucers from the highest shelf in the cupboard and put them on the table. “To what do we owe this grand place settin’?” Norah asked. “I don’t know, Ma. It just sits up there on the shelf.”
Norah used evaporated milk for her tea, as most of Southie’s Irish did. Pet was the preferred brand because they honored saved labels with compensation to local schools.
“Look what I’ve got here, darlin’.” Norah took the wrapped seed cake from her lap and presented it with both hands. “Sure and we’ve a party in the makin’. Tonight we’ll have dessert first.” Rosemary reached up and brought down the rest of the tea set: dessert plates, a sugar bowl, and a pitcher for milk.
“I understand that you, Barbara Catherine and Rita went to confession. I hope the others have too.”
“Mum, no need to worry.”
“Where are the little boys?”
“Timmy and Tommy should be home any minute now. They’ve been out playing most of the day and were here for a little while after lunch, but then Kay shooed them off to confession. Timmy wasn’t too happy about having Tommy tag along again. He whispered, ‘Geez, Kay, Tommy isn’t even old enough to go to confession.’” Rosemary took a covered glass butter dish out of the icebox. “But he didn’t want to hurt Tommy’s feelings, so off they went. You know Timmy, Mum.”
Black Irish refers to olive-skinned and/or dark-haired Irish men and women—a direct result of the Spanish Armada’s 1588 landing in Ireland. Scrawny Timmy grew up to be a handsome, chiseled, lightweight boxing champ.
Norah often said of Timmy, scrawny, with a high forehead and kinky dark hair, “Timothy, God bless him, has the most beautiful heart.” Sometimes, when I look at Timothy, it seems as if there’s a wiry Spaniard and a fair-skinned Irishman fightin’ for possession of his person and neither one is winnin’.
On the other hand, the neighbors often likened his siblings to movie stars, particularly Rosemary. Recently, two women spoke of Rosemary’s potential while watching her cross the street. “And doesn’t the beauty of Rosemary King bring Carol Lombard to mind or is it Veronica Lake I’m thinkin’ of? Sure, she takes a person’s breath away, that one, and speaks well too.”
“Rosemary King could outdo any of those Hollywood types.”
“Oh wouldn’t it be grand to have another one of our own up there on the silver screen? Just think, ‘Starring Rosemary King and Maureen O’Hara.’ I don’t think Miss O’Hara would mind the order of billin’, seein’ as it’s alphabetically correct. Unless of course she considers the Hara part of her name as comin’ first, in a technical sort of way. I mean the O isn’t really much of anythin’ by itself now, is it?”
Rosemary was putting additional plates on the table for her sisters when Norah said, “Let’s just be the two of us for now darlin’. They can have their cake after supper.”
Rosemary brought her hand to her face. “Mum, do you think the mark will be gone by tomorrow? I don’t want to walk into church this way.”
“When the boys come home, I’ll send one of ’em to the market for a small piece of beefsteak. That’ll reduce the swellin’, and later I can make beef tea out of it for Rita. Didn’t that rheumatic fever take the roses right out of your sister’s cheeks? There’s nothin’ like beef tea to bring ’em back again.” Beef tea, made from beef steak, water, and salt cooked for hours, was thought to build up health. To her siblings’ shock, Rita loved it.
“How did it all start, darlin’? Did he strike anyone else?” Norah placed her hand on Rosemary’s wrist but she pulled away.
“Let’s just enjoy our cake, okay, Mum?”
“Yes, you’re right. And you’ll want to put a little butter on that cake. Sure and it’s like gildin’ a lily but I wouldn’t want you missin’ the delicious pleasure of it.”
Rosemary smiled at her mother and reached for the butter dish. “Oh Mum, I almost forgot.” She sat up straighter. “Steve Chalpin asked Kay to the prom a week ago now. Mum, she really wants to go. Do you think Dad will let her? What are we going to do for a dress?”
“Please don’t worry your pretty head about a dress. Things have a way of workin’ out. Enough about Kay, let’s talk about you and the lovely surprise that’s waitin’ for you right outside this kitchen door.”
Norah got up and left the room. She carefully pulled the Jordan Marsh bag from the pantry shelf, smoothed out the soft wrinkles, and returned to the kitchen holding it up in the air like a trophy.
“Mum, what in the world?”
“Take it, darlin’,” Norah said, handing the bag to Rosemary. “It’s yours.”
“Mum, I can’t believe this.” Rosemary held the bag off the floor a
nd carefully removed the coat.
“And aren’t your eyes as big as saucers?” Norah said with a smile.
“Oh my God, Mum. It’s so beautiful! How did you ever—?”
“The lady of that grand house on Beacon Hill gave you this coat. Sure and her own daughter has grown out of its beautiful threads, and she was delighted to send it your way. Her name is Mrs. Caroline Parker, and I’m sure you’ll want to be askin’ our Lord to give her a blessin’ or two for the kindness of it all.”
Tangee Lipstick
“Ideal for Women Who Want to Look Beautiful Without Looking Artificial.
The lipstick that goes on clear and gradually transforms into the perfect shade for you.”
It was the only cosmetic, other than a powdered nose, Norah allowed her girls to wear.
Rosemary took the coat in her hands, twirled, and placed it gently on a nearby chair, as if it were a child sitting alone for the first time. She removed her apron and walked toward the door.
“Where are you takin’ yourself, Rosemary? Sure and I thought you’d have that coat on sooner than I could hang up me own.”
“My hair is mussed, and I want to put on a little of that new Tangee lipstick you said Kay, Rita, and I could wear for special occasions. First impressions are lasting, Mum. I’ll be right back.”
Norah stepped into the hall, hung her own coat on the third peg of the rack John made, and let her mind wander to happier times.
“Norah, there’s only room enough for the twelve pegs. Nine for the children, one for you, one for me, and the twelfth, no, make that the first, is for the Almighty.”
“And isn’t the Holy Trinity three in one, John Joseph, makin’ the single peg enough for them all?”
Reentering the kitchen, Norah lowered her head and with both hands, pushed back several strands of hair that had escaped her neat-as-a-pin bun. As if choreographed, she raised her head in perfect synchronization when Rosemary pulled the red coat’s double-notched lapel collar up around her neck and once again exclaimed to her Maker and mother, “Oh my God, Mum. It’s as though it was made for me. What do you think?”
Norah brought her hands together and smiled “Ah darlin’, of course it was made for you. Didn’t God and His angels plan the whole thing and kindly let those Brahmins borrow it for just awhile?”
Rosemary twirled again. Her blonde shoulder-length hair flew from her shoulders, and the bottom flap of the coat came open, revealing her simple navy-blue print dress and slender legs, while the soft click of her T-strap shoes landed on the shiny linoleum floor.
“It’s a sight for sore eyes, seein’ you so happy. And doesn’t the color of it look grand with your light locks?” Norah was beaming. But as Rosemary completed the turn, Norah noticed her daughter had powdered the bruise, and she got a knot in her stomach.
“Mum, I’m going to show my new coat to Kay and Rita.”
“Careful now. Don’t be raisin’ your voices.”
“I know.” Rosemary walked toward the door and then turned around. “It’s so nice and warm.” She held the coat open and lifted an edge of the taupe satin lining, exposing a layer of wool felt. “Look. Oh I wish it wasn’t for winter so I could wear it right now. Maybe I’ll wear it anyway,” she said with a fleeting grin. “But what do you think, Mum? Could I get away with wearing a red winter coat on Easter Sunday?”
“I don’t think so, darlin’. It’s not the sort of thing you wear in the spring, especially on Easter. It’ll keep.”
“I guess I already knew that. It’ll look wonderful next Christmas though. I can’t wait.” Rosemary folded her arms and shrugged her shoulders. Norah good-naturedly waved her daughter out of the room. “Go on now, and show it to your sisters.” Rosemary kissed her mother on top of her head, ran out of the kitchen and tiptoed down the hall.
Norah got up from the table. She poured the cold tea into the sink, sat down, and poured hot tea into the cup. Adding a little sugar, then milk, she picked up a teaspoon and stirred and stirred as she silently spoke to her closest confidante.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.”
Please help me do what’s best for the children.
“Blessed art Thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.”
Won’t you talk to Your Son about my son John Michael, that He’d keep him from goin’ off to war?
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,”
It’s a comfort knowin’ I’ve the help and wisdom of another mother comin’ my way.
“Pray for us sinners,”
Please, Mother, if there’s any way within me that’s provokin’ my husband’s bad behavior, point it out so I can put a stop to this horror our children are havin’ to endure.
“Now and at the hour of our death.”
Sure and he’s going to kill one of us someday if this drunkenness continues.
“Amen.”
CHAPTER 6
But come ye back when summers in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
’Til I’ll be here in sunshine and in shadow
Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so.
“OH, DANNY BOY”
FREDERICK WEATHERLY
“IF IT ISN’T MR. AND Mrs. King and the royal family.” Peg Hennessey, Marie Flynn’s widowed mother, had been listening for footsteps all morning long. She didn’t want to miss seeing the Kings on their way to Easter Sunday Mass. And now, here they were. “Well, some of them anyway.”
Peg was ready for church except for the stockings rolled down around her ankles due to the painful press on her plump thighs once they were clipped to her girdle. She wore house slippers until the last minute too, before squeezing her feet into “me Sunday best, those torturous beauties.” Peg was seldom seen without an apron. Today’s was a cheery, yellow floral in honor of Easter.
Norah crossed the narrow entry hall and took one of Peg’s frail hands into her own strong ones. “Happy Easter to you darlin’ neighbor.”
“Happy Easter to you too, darlin’ neighbor,” Peg said, patting Norah’s hand.
“You two, darlin’ this, darlin that!” John Joseph chided as he kept one eye on the stairway. “Happy Easter just the same.”
Peg thought how lovely Norah looked in her steel-blue, beige pin dot dress, laced navy-blue pumps, straw hat with a miniature bird jauntily perched on the side, a few artificial sprigs of green tucked around him, and once fashionable, but still good enough butterscotch coat. The coat, purchased long before Norah married, was much too small, but she thought it a secret well kept when simply put over her shoulders. The warmth’s there all the same.
Norah King beamed as she stood next to her husband and the three oldest children, Joe, who was pacing, Rosemary, and Kay.
“Mum,” Joe said, “I thought you said everyone had to be dressed and downstairs by eight-thirty.”
Norah looked at the modest locket watch pinned to her dress. Eight thirty on the dot. Just then, more of her family came running down the common front stairway, with Timmy and Tommy leading the way.
“We’re comin’, Mum,” they called, giggling.
“Pat can’t find his new socks and wants to know if he should wear his old brown ones,” Timmy reported, glancing at his father, ready for trouble.
Norah smiled and sighed. “God in heaven, you don’t mean to tell me he’s lost the new pair already?”
John Joseph bounded halfway up the stairs, pushing past John Michael who was on his way down.
“Mornin’, Dad.” John Michael stepped aside, his uneasiness evident.
“Happy Easter, John,” he replied, much to his son’s relief. He stopped at the next step, grabbed the railing, and yelled, “Patrick! Patrick!”
The thirteen-year-old, barefoot boy appeared on the landing. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry’s not goin’ to find those socks. Find them, Patrick. Just ask yourself, where would I be if I were a brand new pair of socks? And be quick about
it.”
John Joseph came back down. “Well, we’ve got most of them then. Let’s see. Where’s Rita?”
Norah turned to Rosemary. “Do you have any idea what’s keepin’ your sister?”
“Mum, it’s Rita. She’s never on time,” Rosemary blithely replied, and looked toward Kay, who snapped her brand new white gloves in Rosemary’s direction and sing−sang, “Never, Ro, never.”
“Found ’em! Found ’em!” Patrick slid down the railing hoping to gain time.
John Joseph caught him, tightly squeezed his upper arm, and said in a low tone, “It’s a good thing you did, boyo.” He dashed up the stairway again. “Rita Margaret King get yourself down these stairs now!” he bellowed.
Rita quietly closed the front door and descended the newly waxed stairway as if she had time to spare.
“Happy Easter, Dad,” she said, pulling on one of her scallop-edged white gloves.
Petite, auburn-haired, green-eyed Rita was radiant in her pinkish-tan, long-sleeved dress with white cuffs, white embroidery on the pockets and matching Peter Pan collar. Her Easter bonnet was a simple band with petal-pink flowers, and her shoes, barely pumps. She’d begged for stockings instead of white anklets, but Norah wouldn’t budge. “You’ll have your first pair of hosiery in November, on your 16th birthday. No sooner.” Rita held Rosemary’s beige faille clutch purse under her arm, being careful not to crush the corsage pinned to it, a gift from an unknown beau. She was pulling on the second glove when she caught her father’s too-long gaze at the bodice of her dress.
John Joseph’s youngest daughter’s budding beauty stopped him in his tracks, but not his anger. “Why are you the one we’re always waitin’ for?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. It’s just—”
“Just nothin’. Pick up your step young woman.”
“Yes, Dad.” When he turned his back, she crossed her eyes. The little boys swallowed their giggles, and Peg Hennessey put her hand over her mouth for the same reason. Norah looked the other way.
The Red Coat Page 6