“Dad signed this morning, Ma.”
“God in heaven. How many times do I have to tell you and your brothers and sisters, don’t be callin’ me, ‘Ma!’”
“Mum, I have to leave. And I think you know that.”
“Did you have somethin’ to eat at the drugstore? I’m sure Mr. Mac watches out for you.”
“Yes, Mum. About five o’clock I had a cheese sandwich and vanilla frappe.”
“That was over six hours ago. Here let me scramble you a couple of eggs.”
“Mum, it’s not workin’ out for me around here. And it’ll be better for you and the kids too … less commotion.”
John Michael pulled a chair away from the table. He sat down, slouched, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “It’s been a long day’s work, Mum.” He clasped his hands behind his neck. “I think I’ll take you up on those eggs. Can you spare a glass of milk, and maybe some toast too?”
“It’ll only take me a few minutes to put it all together. Meanwhile, it’d do you good to close your eyes.”
“Not when I’m with the most beautiful girl in Southie.”
Norah removed her rosary from the kitchen table, kissed the crucifix, and tucked it in her robe pocket.
“Sorry if I interrupted your prayin’, Mum.”
“And wouldn’t the Mother of God rather I do what needs doin’, takin’ care of you, than sit at the kitchen table finishin’ me prayers with her? She knows I’ll be back.”
John Michael closed his eyes.
He was doing okay at Gate of Heaven School, liked his summer job at the drugstore, and had eyes for no other girl but Marion Callanan. But Johnny, as most called him, knew he had to leave home before the fights with his father killed him. Or God forbid, that one of these days I kill my own father. The prospect of joining the Navy lured him into a different kind of battle, one with honor and the promise of learning a trade. His seventeenth birthday was next Saturday, July 14th, one week away.
The only sound was the sizzling of butter in a small, black iron skillet, then crack, plop, crack, plop. Two eggs went into a bowl, and the distressed mother quickly beat them with a fork. Holy Mary, Mother of God. She added a little milk. Please help me to do the right thing by my Johnny. She briskly beat the eggs again.
Norah put the plate of steaming-hot food before her son. Straightaway, he slid the Navy document across the table in her direction and laid a pocket pen beside it. “Mum, please.”
She picked up the pen, leaned down, reluctantly put her signature on the paper, and silently made the sign of the cross: In ainm an Athar agus an Mhic agus an sporaid Naoimh. Áméin. She walked away. “Your toast is comin’.”
“Thanks, Mum.” John Michael took a bite of eggs, slid the paper back toward him, looked at Norah’s signature, and got a lump in his throat. The Navy document was stained with his mother’s tears.
It all began when John Michael heard from his friend Lefty Roach that you could enlist in the U.S. Navy at age seventeen if you had your parents’ signed permission. Lefty's good news was practically up there with slugger Ted Williams leading the Boston Red Sox with a batting average over .400. Ted made the home team look good, and Johnny had found an honorable escape from his father’s wrath.
It seemed easy enough to get approval from his father, who straightaway saw his son’s pending enlistment as one less mouth to feed. That is, until he just as quickly realized John’s absence would also mean a loss of income for the family. “And what do you think we’re supposed to do while you’re off enjoyin’ yourself? Don’t your earnings, meager as they are, help put food on the table? I’m not signin’ anythin’, and you’re not goin’ anywhere.”
John’s father threw the Navy consent form on the living room floor, returned to his newspaper, and searched The Boston Globe’s obituary column for familiar names.
Rosemary sat on the sofa across from their father hemming a pair of hand-me-down trousers. Norah’s mending basket was at her feet, with only one more item that needed attention. She caught John Michael’s eye and mouthed, “Sorry.” He nodded, walked over to the bowed front window, looked out, and wondered what would come next. The apartment was empty except for the three of them. You could have heard a pin drop, and the silence in the room practically strangled John Michael with its hopelessness.
Suddenly, Rosemary sprang from the sofa and said, “Please, Dad, John, stay where you are. I’ll be right back.” She picked up the Navy document from the floor on her way. Dear God in heaven, please keep everything calm in there until I get back.
Norah left early that morning to go grocery shopping, and brought Timmy and Tommy with her to help carry the treasured bundles home. Sullivan’s Surplus had sent word to thirteen-year-old Pat they needed help sorting items salvaged from the Old Colony building site, beginning Saturday morning. Sully’s cousin’s wife’s brother-in-law, a foreman on the site, arranged for Sully’s crew to pick up “surplus” at the end of every work week “after midnight, when it’s not so busy.”
“Old Colony Housing Project, a complex of three-story brick buildings, 843 units in all, built for low- and moderate-income individuals and families, sits on 15 acres of land across the street from Carson Beach.”
South Boston: My Home Town
Thomas H. O’Connor
And Rita left bright and early for her Saturday job in the lingerie department at Grants where she learned all the neighborhood ladies’ secrets. “Mum, did you know Mrs. Curran wears two girdles at a time? Says it makes her look a lot slimmer. Mum, she doesn’t look slim at all. She’s built like a battleship.”
“I wonder if Mr. Grant would want you workin’ in his store knowin’ you’re comparin’ one of his best customers to a war vessel. Mind your tongue now, Rita Margaret, or God will punish you.”
“I’m sorry, Mum.” Rita tucked her soft auburn curls behind each ear. “But can I just tell you about Mrs. Day?”
“Absolutely not.” Norah smiled at the daughter who never ceased to make her laugh.
Kay, Rosemary, and Johnny were all home on Saturday mornings, and Norah expected them to help around the house. “You’re the oldest now and need to be settin’ a good example for the others.”
Kay and Rosemary had nine-to-five, Monday-through-Friday clerical jobs, Rosemary worked for the Carney Hospital and Kay assisted the bookkeeper at O’Toole Bros. Furnace Sales, Installation & Repair ~ Family Owned Since 1918. To Norah’s absolute pride, both girls had high school diplomas and took advanced education classes at night.
John Michael worked all day Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and on Saturdays from noon to eleven o’clock closing, at Morris’s Pharmacy and Fountain on the corner of Broadway and H, where he did a little bit of everything—stocking, sweeping, prescription delivery—but mostly worked the fountain. Johnny King made ice-cream sodas, sundaes, and frappes with such flair that people who came in for medication, cosmetics, or sundries made it a point to stop by the fountain because of the young man pharmacist George McDonough had come to call, “my cracker-jack soda jerk.”
When concocting ice cream sodas, Johnny would throw a glass in the air with one hand, turn around, catch it with the other, twirl the ice cream scooper, and ask, “What’ll you have, strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, or coffee?” Then he’d raise the soda water hose as high as it would go and squirt “bubbly” into each glass with an exaggerated up-and-down motion. He did the same with milk and whipped cream too. When it was time to put a maraschino cherry on top, Johnny’d wink and say, “Cherry for your thoughts.” The girls loved him.
Although Kay said she was going on a walk that day with her friends, Rosemary and Norah knew better. Kay would be “steppin’ out” with Steve Chalpin, a Polish young man her father had forbidden her to see. She’d secretly talked marriage to her sisters. “Why should we wait? Steve’s twenty-three and has a good job, and I’ll be through with my accounting courses at Katherine Gibb’s before you know it. I don’t care if he isn’t Irish. He’s the kin
dest man I’ve ever known and I want to become his wife before he finds another.” But she wouldn’t leave before completing her part of the housework as requested.
“Barbara Catherine, there are a few things that need doin’ before you go anywhere. Please run a dust mop throughout the place, and don’t forget under the beds. Take the sheets and towels off the clothesline, fold them, and put everything away. I don’t want laundry lyin’ about. That’s a good girl. And John Michael, I need you to put a bit of polish to the stove. It’s lookin’ rather neglected. You’ll find the stove black under the sink. Thank you. I’ll see you later then.” The high heat of cooking left Norah’s cast-iron stove ashen, and spills rusted it. The waxy stove black was liberally applied, left to dry, and polished. A well-blackened stove was considered a sure sign of good housekeeping.
Norah left Rosemary with a small basket of mending, and instructions to help Kay. “If you could iron the little boys’ Sunday shirts, and please tip the chairs to make the dust moppin’ easier for your sister. Many hands make light work. Oh and girls, be sure to ask your father if he needs you to fix him somethin’ to eat. Please don’t forget. I’ll leave it at that.”
Rosemary went as fast as she could to the room she and her sisters shared, put the Navy document on top of the dresser, opened the closet door, and pushed wire hangers aside one by one until she found what she was looking for, the Jordan Marsh garment bag that held her red coat. I hope I’m doing the right thing. If Johnny doesn’t leave this house it’s just a matter of time before our father—He has a better chance of surviving the war, and if he doesn’t—Blessed Mother, please send me a sign that I’m doing the right thing. Rosemary blessed herself before reaching into one of the red coat’s pockets.
Her sister Kay walked in, having just returned from a stroll on Castle Island with her “friends.” The delicious aroma of fried clams and French fries came in with her.
Kelly's Landing
SOUTH BOSTON, MASS.
Kelly’s Landing was the place for “South Boston caviar” (fried clams) and French fried potatoes (best with a sprinkling of vinegar) and was extremely popular with young people. If money was scarce you could always manage to find enough change for a cup of clam chowder. And if you had a regular job like Steve Chalpin, you could order anything you or your sweetheart wanted. Kay and Steve called Kelly’s “our place.”
“Hi, Ro. What in the world are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save Johnny’s life by giving Dad cash to make up for the money that won’t be coming in.”
“Okey-dokey. Um, would you like to fill me in on the details?”
Kay sat with a bounce on the double bed she and Rosemary shared, kicked both shoes off, and began rubbing her feet. “My dogs are barking. I really should wear socks on these long walks, but they make my legs look stumpy.”
After hurriedly telling her sister about Johnny’s request and their father’s ultimatum, Rosemary explained, “I’ll be bringing in more money after I start that new job next week.” She’d completed her night school studies and secured, as her mother told anyone who’d listen, “one of those grand civil service situations with the benefits and all.” In her new job, Rosemary Virginia King would report downtown each morning before returning to Southie and making her rounds as a social worker.
Rosemary held a handful of cash neatly secured with a rubber band. “This money should keep Dad happy until my first paycheck.”
Kay, shocked by Rosemary’s proposal, spoke from the top of her heart. “Do you mean to say that you’re paying our father to send our brother away, possibly off to war?” But Kay knew it was the only thing to do and went to the dresser the sisters had shared since childhood, opened one of the two bottom drawers that were hers, and reached for a pair of little, brown, buckled shoes tucked in the back corner beneath a small stack of undies.
“I always forget which shoe I hide my money in.”
“It’s the right one, Kay.”
“Ro!”
“Your secret’s safe with me. I was looking for my sweater clip and thought you may have borrowed it. That’s the only reason I opened your drawer. When I did, the change jingled, and I was curious. Kay, I didn’t realize you kept Noni’s shoes. Does Mum know?”
“She doesn’t. Ro, I just couldn’t part with them. Noni’s our angel, we’ve said that all along, and I knew she’d watch over the money.
“I miss her, Kay.”
“Me too, Ro.”
Noni was the second youngest of the four King girls and smallest in stature, with an uncanny ability to jump high and long, earning her the reputation of being the “best jump roper in Southie,” as her girlfriends bragged when they split into competing teams. Noni’s light step and endurance didn’t go unnoticed by adults either.
Mrs. Moira Brennan, who taught Irish dancing in the basement of her home, which she preferred to call “a small studio of me own,” saw the tiny girl’s potential to be a champion Irish dancer, and she asked Norah time and again, “Won’t you please let your daughter give it a try?” Finally, she realized the modest fee was beyond the family’s reach. “Norah King, wouldn’t you be doin’ me the best of favors if you’d let your Noni be my first, I believe it’s called, protégé? Sure and she’s the ability to put South Boston on the map with her gift of movin’ like a fairy.”
In Southie they had a saying, “In this neighborhood a fella’s got four choices: He can go into the service, be a cop, a priest, or a criminal.” None of the King brothers became priests.
“All right then, Moira. We’ll give it a go. My Noni dancin’ to your own tune.”
The elated patron thought of everything. “Norah King, would you do me the additional favor of allowin’ your Noni to wear my Kathleen’s green velvet dress for the competition? Sure and it’s full of good luck, for didn’t Kathleen place first in her division wearin’ one and the same?”
Moira Brennan grinned from ear to ear whenever Noni was in the studio. It was as if the girl had been taking lessons on the sly. That’s how good she was. “You’re a born dancer, Noni King. And won’t you be the showstopper of all time with leaps as high as your own?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brennan,” Noni said. She pulled up her socks and ran and hugged her benefactor’s legs. “Thank you for letting me come here.” This little girl was going to make everyone look good. Her first competition was only a week away when the dreadful accident occurred. Noni King was run over by a delivery truck. She was eight years, six months, and nineteen days old.
Norah King baked her own bread, saving some of the dough to roll into little knots she deep fried and dipped in sugar as a special treat for her children. John Joseph favored rye bread, which Norah didn’t bake. Buying it was a luxury, but she liked to please her husband. And so, from time to time, she would send one of the children to the grocery store for “a loaf of that good Jewish corn rye for your father.” That day, it was Noni’s turn, and she was excited to be entrusted with the one errand that would make her father happy.
The little girl with the curly, strawberry-blonde bob, an oversized yellow bow holding some of her locks in place, lay in the street on her stomach, her pastel plaid dress embossed with tire marks. When police arrived on the scene, they gently turned her over and saw a cherub face with a sprinkling of freckles and eyes still wide open in terror.
Officer McCarthy pulled out his handkerchief and wept, while Officer Palma removed his coat and covered the dead child. Coincidentally, they’d been only a half block away when an alarmingly loud screech of brakes caused them to run and see if anything of consequence had taken place. Although this was their regular beat, the policemen had no way of knowing who the girl was. There were so many children, who could keep track of them all? It was early morning with very few people around, and those that were didn’t know who she was either.
The policemen moved Noni King to the sidewalk, and left her in the care of an elderly couple who’d been out for a morning stroll. They asked another wit
ness to telephone the police department, and demanded the driver of the delivery truck stay put until the other officers arrived. “Jesus, pal. How fast were ya goin’? What ya got in the truck that’s worth the life of this innocent little girl?”
They tenderly removed her small shoes and went door to door asking, “Do these belong to anyone in your house?”
The two policemen heard fiddle music as they climbed the stairs to the Kings’ apartment, and they knocked on the door with a heavy rap. Kay, age eleven at the time, ran and opened it, only to see her younger sister’s shoes in the hand of Officer McCarthy. “Do you recognize these, young lady?” he asked.
“I think they belong to my sister,” Kay answered, frowning with bewilderment. “She just went to the store for my mother. She’ll be right back.”
Norah came up behind Kay, saw the shoes and gasped. “Officers, where is she? Where’s my daughter? What’s happened?”
Once again Officer McCarthy pulled out his handkerchief and Officer Palma delivered the painful news. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident Mrs….”
By the look on the officers’ faces, she knew that her small daughter’s life had been taken. Norah bent down and whispered into Kay’s ear, “Go get your father.” As she stood, she pushed her and hysterically cried, shaking her hands as if reaching for something, “Get your father! And tell the others to stay where they are.”
Norah King took the shoes from Officer McCarthy, held them to her chest, closed her eyes, opened them again and began swaying, the way mothers do when they want to keep their babies from crying. “Noni. Her name is Noni, short for Norah, like meself. Norah Virginia King and she’s eight years old. Where is she, Officer? Where’s my—”
The Red Coat Page 9