The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Norah Catherine Foley King knew what it was to leave home. Didn’t I leave me own parents at about the same age? She wistfully recalled her mother’s parting words. God bless your way, you darlin’ brave girl. And her dearly departed father, as he handed her a sealed envelope shortly before she boarded the ship for America. “Norah, put this in a safe place now. I’ll not have one of me own goin’ to an unknown land without a few extra coins ’til there’s work.

  Years later, when the time came, mother and son were buried in the same grave. But Joe’s name, Joseph Frances King, at his brothers’ firm decision, would not be on the headstone with those of his parents and sister.

  Norah rose from the couch, walked across the room, and put her hands on Joe’s broad shoulders. “Well, what’s done is done, and I can’t say it’s an altogether bad thing. But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Joseph. You might have told me before I bought you that fine-lookin’ new suit. Now I’ll be payin’ Mr. Karp for God knows how long, only to have it hangin’ in the closet.”

  Joe had tears in his eyes but a smile nonetheless. “Maybe John Michael will grow into it soon, Mum.”

  Norah took her eldest son into her arms, kissed him on the cheek, stood back, and adjusted her apron. “We’ll have a send-off for you then, though heaven only knows where we’ll get the money. I’ve spent every dime on Easter and your new suit.” She smiled.

  “I don’t want that, Mum. I just want to go. All I ask is that you, and maybe some of the kids, see me off at South Station. I don’t want the other fellas thinkin’ I’m an orphan or somethin’.”

  “We’ll all be there, Joseph. Though I can’t speak for your father.”

  “Mum, I don’t really care if he—” Joe angrily held his hands out.

  Norah shook her right index finger. “Joseph Frances King, I don’t want to hear it.” She brought her hands together and said, “Know that I understand and let that be enough. Please.”

  South Station

  BOSTON, MASS.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Nobody who has not been in the interior of a family can say

  what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.

  PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  JANE AUSTEN

  AFTER A BEVY OF DESSERTS—COCONUT cream pie, pineapple upside-down cake, individual butterscotch puddings with whipped cream—and before the requisite game of charades, Cordelia and her college friends lingered at the table nibbling candy from the miniature glass baskets at each place setting. The aunties picked theirs up and retired to the parlor for catnaps. Caroline and Price Parker walked Eleanor Brewster, her husband Sinclair, and their baby boy to the front gate. Young Jonathan needed his nap too.

  “Thank you so much,” Eleanor said as Price lifted the black, cast-iron latch. “This was a perfect Easter Sunday.”

  “Well, Eleanor, it was Providence, meeting as we did last week.” Caroline stroked the baby’s hair. “Oh, to have a son.” She extended an open invitation to his doting parents. “What a delight to have your family at our Easter table. We’ll have to make it a tradition.”

  Price Parker II was six foot two with boyishly mussed gray-brown hair; two cowlicks prevented every strand from staying in place. He had a tendency to hold his chin up, and a generally reserved manner. Dressed in Brooks Brothers clothing—white dress shirt, bow tie, suspenders, and pinstriped navy suit—he tenderly patted baby Jonathan’s back and heartily agreed. “Absolutely.”

  The young people were still seated at the dining table and making plans.

  “Who’s in for a walk on the Common after charades?” one of the boys asked, tipping his chair back, precariously balancing on the legs. Another did the same, although their rocking was at odds; when one came to, the other went fro. Cordelia’s older brother, Pip, sat forward, both hands on the edge of the table, looking as if he was ready to push off at any moment.

  The Buddies' Club

  Pip had been nicknamed after his mother’s imaginary first love, Pip, from Charles Dickens’s “Great Expectations,” and the summary of his own initials. Caroline had great expectations, indeed, for her only son and favorite child, “My Pip.”

  “That’s a terrific idea. Bet they’ve got music at the Buddies’ Club tonight. Probably the only place in town that does.”

  Located on Boston Common, the Buddies’ Club provided hospitality to the armed services. Young women volunteers served coffee and donuts, and in many instances, met their future spouses at the club.

  Price Irving Parker III, “Pip,” was the image of his good-looking father, but the similarity ended there. Pip was interested in all things glamorous and fast—nightclubs, cars, and cocktails—and according to his Harvard roommate, he was quite experienced with the ladies.

  Cordelia’s good-natured, closest male friend, George Leland, the only young man at the table still wearing a jacket, beamed his best smile and knocked on the white damask-covered table for emphasis. “You need to be a serviceman to get into the Buddies’ Club, remember?”

  George, tall and reed thin, his receding ash-blond hair combed straight back, was a divinity student at Harvard. And the gang could always, if not reluctantly, depend on him to be their moral compass.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t stand outside and listen, does it, George?” chic Abigail Dubois asked. Her dark hair coiffed in a Buster Brown cut, and flirty brown eyes mischievously looking here and there, she rhythmically clinked a silver teaspoon on the crystal goblet before her. The others gaily followed suit. Clink, clink, clink, sounding like a would-be Lilliputian band.

  Pip turned to Abby. “Maybe you’ll meet a good-looking sailor boy?”

  Abigail continued to play her silver spoon tune. “Knowing my luck, he’ll probably be Irish and from South Boston.”

  Cordelia, dallying with her pudding, was sitting right next to Abby. “Well, Abigail, he could look like the movie star Tyrone Power. That wouldn’t be half-bad now, would it?”

  They all laughed.

  Abigail and her three sisters were all named for American first ladies. While studying at the Sorbonne, her mother fell in love with and married a French architectural student. Mindful of her Yankee lineage, Mrs. Dubois chose to give her daughters names that would leave no doubt they were all American girls:

  Dolley Madison Dubois,

  Abigail Adams Dubois,

  Martha Washington Dubois,

  and Grace Coolidge Dubois.

  Brawny Spencer Clark—better known as Skip—member of the Harvard rowing team, heir to his family’s banking business, and designated mascot of their gang because he was the youngest, chimed in, “Careful there, Miss So- and-So. My father says some of his best workers are from Southie. It could happen, Abby. You’d fall in love with his Irish eyes, marry, and establish your own “Blue Heaven” on the first floor of a charming three-decker.”

  The entire table broke into the popular song, following George’s lead.

  Sarah Armstrong, Cordelia’s college roommate, threw a jellybean at George and giggled. “George Leland, you’re positively appalling.” Sarah was pleasingly plump, and her flaxen hair was arranged in curls that were drooping more by the minute. She had a flawless but pale complexion and a nondescript style, other than to say it was extraordinarily plain. Always proper, Sarah had an ability to giggle, as Cordelia would say, “like nobody’s business.” An Ohio native, she attended Radcliffe through the generous inheritance of a deceased maiden aunt, majored in journalism, and dreamt of writing the great American novel. Her friends said she was destined to be a clergyman’s wife because Sarah blushed whenever George Leland was around, and because it was absolutely reciprocal.

  Pip was brilliant at staying in his parents’ good graces, despite their disapproval of his social choices. When he saw his father walking past the dining room, Pip asked the others, just loud enough to resonate into the hall, “How about a game of charades? Our parents would be disappointed if we didn’t play at least one round.”

  Only famil
y and close friends called Cordelia, “Cap,” or “Cappy,” her mother’s clever blend of Cordelia Anne Parker’s initials and a whimsical reference to Shakespeare’s Juliet Capulet, the lovely young maiden who knew true love but never married.

  Abby proposed a plan. “Let’s play right now, so we can take that walk before it gets too late.” She stood—Spencer helped with her chair—and she turned to Cordelia. “Cappy, may I borrow a coat? Looks like it’s getting cold out there, and I merely have that light spring dress jacket I wore to church this morning.”

  “Of course. I have just the one! And it’s in your best colors.” Cordelia paused and smiled. “Red, red, red. No one wears red as well as you do, Abby. I’ll go upstairs and get it right now. Excuse me, all.”

  Caroline Parker was on her way to the parlor, carrying an open, egg-shaped box of Fannie Farmer chocolates, when Hilda approached her.

  “Mrs. Parker, your presence is needed upstairs. Miss Cordelia is all in a dither.”

  “Why, Hilda, what could she possibly be upset about after such a lovely Easter dinner?”

  “I think it’s best if you ask her, Mrs. Parker.” Hilda walked toward the kitchen.

  “You and Cook certainly outdid yourselves this year.”

  Hilda turned around. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.”

  “The pineapple-raisin sauce was perfect. And I so enjoyed that new turnip-potato dish. Oh my, I’m afraid I’m doing it again, circumventing the subject at hand. I’ll go upstairs right now. Please tell Mr. Parker I’ll only be a minute, will you? Oh, and if my turn at charades comes up while I’m gone, tell them you’ll be filling in for me. My Price is such a stickler for order.”

  Hilda was unnerved at the thought of pantomiming. I’ll make a fool of myself. What do I know about the kind of books they read? And moving pictures? “Mrs. Parker, wouldn’t you prefer I set the sideboard for a light supper? I’m sure everyone will be hungry before bedtime.”

  “Very well, Hilda, but deliver my message nonetheless. I don’t want our guests to feel I’ve abandoned them. Oh, and Hilda, you needn’t have been so skittish about charades.” Caroline smiled and adjusted the cuffs of her new white silk blouse beneath the sleeves of last year’s light, jade boucle suit.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.” Hilda inclined her head in a bow and entered the parlor as her employer ascended the spiral staircase. Price Parker’s ancestors peered out from exquisitely framed oil portraits on Caroline’s left, and she nodded to each. How pleased you must be to see the family home filled with such happiness and good fellowship. Your efforts are rewarded.

  When Sarah and Abby saw Cordelia’s bedroom, they swooned. Sarah said, “Jeepers, Cappy, this is gorgeous.” And Abby quipped, “My mother would never trust me or my sisters with such elegance.”

  Caroline knocked softly on the open door before entering her daughter’s spacious bedroom, its walls covered in a petite, green-rose-and-buttercream, floral-striped wallpaper, the twin, four-poster beds skirted in natural linen, and made up with pristine white sheets, ivory blankets, and butter-cream coverlets turned back, revealing Cordelia’s monogram on the top sheet, CPA. Quilted linen spreads, piped in rose, were tiered like layer cakes at the foot of each bed and coordinating pillows were neatly tossed on a sizable window seat.

  Caroline was stunned to see clothing and hangers all askew on one of the beds, with more thrown on a dressing table chair and across the window seat. Her daughter appeared to be frantically looking for something in the closet when Caroline inquired, “Cordelia, what’s the meaning of this?”

  Cordelia Anne Parker—tall like her mother, and nice-looking, though not quite as pretty, with the pear-shaped build of the women in her father’s family, dressed in a new mauve Scottish-tweed suit—abruptly turned on the right heel of her black kid pump. “Mother, I’m trying to find my red coat. And I distinctly remember hanging it at the back of this closet. Hilda mentioned spring cleaning before running from the room saying something about you possibly giving it away. Is that correct, Mother? Did you give my coat away? Why would you do such a thing without asking me first?” Cordelia folded her arms, and slightly tipped her dishwater-blonde head. “Mother?”

  Caroline sat on the edge of the bed closest to her. “First of all Cordelia, I don’t care for your tone. And before answering any questions, I have one of my own. Why are you suddenly interested in a coat that hasn’t been worn for two years?” Caroline Parker had no way of knowing Cordelia intentionally put it out of immediate reach because of who had his arm around the shoulder of the red coat the last time she wore it.

  Ever since childhood, Cordelia had loved Norman Alden Prescott—tall, sandy-haired, good-looking, and genial, in the most masculine sense—but he preferred being friends. She truly believed it was just a matter of time before he’d see her as someone to build a suitable and pleasant life with. After all we have everything in common, growing up two streets apart here on the hill, our families spending summers together on the Cape, not to mention Shaw Prep, cotillion, church, and our parents’ long-standing friendship. Someday he’ll see me differently.

  It was two years ago, Cordelia’s freshman year at Radcliffe, during winter break and three days after Christmas, when she, Pip, Norman, and his two visiting girl cousins decided to go ice-skating on Boston Common’s Frog Pond.

  The red coat was new, and Cordelia wanted to look her best so she chose it over a more suitable, shorter one. On the way home, after hours of skating and happiness, it snowed. In the joy of the moment, and in an effort to keep warm, Norman threw one arm around Cordelia’s shoulder and the other around his cousin Amy’s. Pip had already made his move on Amy’s older sister, Alice, and they walked ahead of the others, hand in gloved hand. Cordelia was certainly warm enough—the red coat had a double lining—but she had goose bumps from head to toe. Norman is actually embracing me.

  After a somewhat stretched-out goodbye, Cordelia went straight to her room and lovingly laid the red coat across one of the twin beds, where she could dreamily stare at it. A couple of days later, she hung the cherished garment at the back of her closet for the safest of keeping.

  Offering to loan the red coat to Abby was easy, because Abigail Adams Dubois was the one and only person in the world who knew of her unrequited love. And she had promised time and again, “Cappy, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you and Norman.” The hopeful memory would be safe on Abby.

  “I’m sorry if I was snippy, Mother.” Cordelia pulled a moss-green skirted chair away from her dressing table, retrieved the two pieces of clothing laying over it, and put them on her lap as she sat down. “The boys suggested we take a walk around the Common and Abigail asked if she could borrow a coat. She’s such a little bird, not an ounce of fat on her. Did I tell you, Mother? “Bye, Bye Blackbird” has become our nickname for Abby? Well, actually, Birdie. It so suits her pretty little raven-haired being.” Cordelia had her mother’s penchant for “circumventing the subject at hand,” and Pip constantly teased her about it. Cordelia let a smile escape her otherwise serious expression. “Mother, I assured Abby I had one in her best color, ‘red, red, red.’”

  “Red, red, red?” Caroline smiled too, and sighed. “Cordelia, I’m so sorry about your red coat. But I was under the impression you were through with it. Last Saturday, we were gathering every piece of unused clothing, and Hilda piled it all on the settee in the entry. Your red coat was on top. Two women were here scrubbing our floors, and one very politely asked if she could please have it. That Irish woman didn’t ask for herself—simply wanted the coat for her daughter, Rosemary. Isn’t that a lovely name, Rosemary?” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed as her mother continued. “If I thought for a minute … I never would have given it away. Meanwhile, I’m sure we can find something suitable for Abby to wear. How about my three-quarter-length camel hair coat? That should keep her warm enough.”

  “Mother, I’d like to get my red coat back. Is that at all possible?”

  “It’s only one coat, Cordelia, a
nd you have many.”

  “Lovely, Mother. My gorgeous Jordan Marsh coat now belongs to a scrubwoman’s daughter.”

  Caroline was losing her patience. “Oh, for goodness sake. What’s done is done Cordelia.” She added a comment far more upsetting to her daughter than the issue at hand. “Your brother would never behave in this manner.” Caroline began putting clothes back in the closet. “I’ll come up here later and get things in order, after you’ve all left for your walk. For now, let’s return to our guests.”

  Cordelia preceded her mother out of the room in absolute silence but not without thought. All this upset because some Irish woman had the nerve to ask for my coat. And once again, my brother comes out smelling like a rose.

  Cordelia Anne Parker had lived in the seemingly perfect shadow of her handsome older brother since the day she was born. And her edge, in an otherwise pleasant personality, came from the fruitless pursuit of trying to gain the same kind of love her mother had for Pip, unconditional, preferential, and adoring.

  Price and Caroline Parker’s second born stopped by the grandfather clock and held her arms, like people do when they are very cold. “I’m sorry, Mother. It’s just so upsetting when something you assumed would be in place is missing.”

  CHAPTER 8

  May God be with you and bless you.

  May you see your children’s children.

  May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings.

  May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.

  IRISH BLESSING

  “MA, PLEASE. JUST SIGN HERE.”

  It was late, eleven thirty. Norah took the paper from John Michael, who’d just returned home from work, and held it beneath the only light on in the kitchen, a small, shaded wall lamp by the stove. She looked back at him and scowled. “And what made you think I’d do such a thing, sign me own boy over to the U.S. Navy when the whole world’s threatenin’ to go to war?”