John Joseph looked Tony up and down. “I’m not shakin’ the hand of a goddam I-talian. Tony?” He turned to Rosemary and back again to face the young man in question. “Who the hell do you guineas think you are comin’ over here to South Boston for our daughters?”
Tony kept cool in the heat of John Joseph’s tirade. “Sir, I have—”
Norah reached between them and lightly touched her husband’s forearm. “John, they’re only goin’ out for a nice evenin’ now.”
John Joseph pulled away and continued to glare.
“Dad, his parents had a special fondness for Saint Anthony.” Rosemary began to explain, and then Tony stepped in. “Excuse me, Rosemary.”
Tony chose to state his respect for Rosemary, rather than ridiculously deny he had any Italian blood, and looked her father right in the eye. “Mr. King, I have nothing but the best intentions toward your daughter, and you can trust me to be a complete gentleman when we’re together.”
“Oh, and you’re a smooth talker too.”
“Dad, please! We have reservations at Blinstrub’s, and the others are waiting for us.”
John Joseph shooed Rosemary toward the open door. “Go, go on! Go out with him but don’t come cryin’ to your mother and me, when you’re sorry for the day you met this Dago.”
He opened the door wider. “Goddam smooth talkin’, guinea.” The cantankerous father walked toward the kitchen. “Norah, let’s have a cup of tea.”
Rosemary threw her mother a kiss on the way out, and Norah returned it.
Kay, Rita, Pat, Timmy, and Tommy waited until their father and mother were out of sight and then ran out the door and called down the stairwell.
“Happy New Year!”
“Love birds.”
“No kissin’ at midnight.”
Kay and Rita returned to the couch and nervously waited for their own dates. “I sure hope dad doesn’t make a scene again,” Rita said.
“Plan on it, kiddo.” Kay answered while looking in a compact mirror, freshening her lipstick. “Plan on it.”
Kay would be spending New Year’s Eve with sweetheart, Steve Chalpin. But his friend, Dan McCole, would be picking her up just to keep the peace.
Norah knew her girls would be concerned, and she soon returned to the living room. “The coast is clear. Your father’s gone down the back stairs and to the pub. Your young men will only have me to contend with now.” Norah smiled, pulled the lace curtain back, and looked out the window.
When Rosemary and Tony got outside, Arty Feeny and his date were parked at the curb waiting for them. Tony tapped on the windshield “Give us another minute?”
Arty wrote his answer, “OK,” backwards on the foggy glass.
“Tony, I’m sorry about everything that happened upstairs.” Rosemary had her arms folded against the cold. “I really don’t know what to say, other than my father’s opinions are not my own, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Tony watched the breath of her concern fade into the freezing night air.
“Rosemary, it’s fine. All that matters is you and me and the fabulous evening we have before us.”
Tony presented the ribbon-tied box he’d been holding and gingerly removed a triple-rose corsage. “These are for you, but I’m afraid they pale next to the real thing.”
Rosemary took the flowers in her hands and held them up to her face. “Tony they’re so beautiful and they smell wonderful.”
“May I pin it on?”
“Please.”
“I’ll try not to stick you.”
“I think it would be easier if you let me hold the box.” Tony possessed an awkwardness that Rosemary found endearing.
“By the way, I’m glad you’re wearing your red coat tonight.” Tony stood closer, put one hand beneath her lapel and fumbled with the corsage pin. “I had it in mind when I asked for white roses.”
She could hear his steady breathing and got butterflies from the masculine scent of his aftershave. “Roses and Old Spice too, Mr. Williamson. Are all I-talians this suave?”
After several days of persuasion, John Joseph finally believed Rosemary’s new boyfriend was indeed Scotch-Irish. But that didn’t mean he would be civil to Tony, and he wasn’t, ever. John Joseph’s rudeness, by and large, escalated with each date.
“So, what are you doin’ with my daughter this evenin’?”
“Tell me An-tony, do you know what it is to get your hands dirty? I’ve a cousin like you, learned, and he’s nothin’ outside the classroom. Hope you’re not like Seamus. You’re not now, are you?”
“How much money are they payin’ ya at that cushy night job, down there at the Globe?”
Tony frequently repeated questions asked of him so he’d have more time to think about his answers, a strategy learned from one of his professors at Boston College.
Rosemary was concerned Tony’s suitable, but what her father called “goddammed smart,” answers, such as “What do I earn at the Globe, Mr. King? Enough to make it worthwhile, sir,” would one day be met with a violent outburst.
Soon she suggested they meet somewhere other than her parents’ home.
“That’ll work out fine during the week, Ro, because of work and school. But I’m not running away from your father.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Ro, you don’t know what I’m capable of when it comes to you.” And neither did Tony, but he thought it sounded good, and refused to be intimidated by a man who’d obviously lost his way to decent behavior.
“Tony Williamson.” Rosemary shook her head and gave him the smile that made his knees go weak. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Accompany me to Symphony Hall next Saturday. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock, okay?”
Rosemary Virginia King and Tony Ignatious Williamson stole every moment they could get together. With her night classes and her job at the Carney Hospital, which everyone called “the Carney,” and his full-time studies at Boston College and night desk job at the Globe, it was challenging. But love forever finds a way, and they frequently met downtown, away from their respective worlds and into one of their own.
Boston Symphony Hall
Tony seldom had trouble spotting Rosemary, her red coat easy to find among the usual navy-blue, brown, black, khaki, gray, and sometimes green, jackets, coats, and hats. More than once, when she walked toward him with that sprightly step of hers, Tony knew that God had sent him someone special and he couldn’t decide what shone more, Rosemary’s radiant smile, golden hair, or scintillating personality. Time and again a popular tune came to mind: “Got a Date With An Angel.”
When Rosemary saw Tony first—which she often did because he stood above the crowd—and waved to catch his attention, he was the proudest man in Boston. Yes, that beautiful blonde is my girl. Can you believe it?
Rosemary was elated to have a man of Tony’s distinction coming toward her. He was good looking in his own way, carried himself with all the self-assurance in the world, and possessed a calmness that made her feel safe.
Boston Public Library
Most often, they met at the corner of Park and Tremont, close to the subway exit.
Once the love-struck couple came together, they took each other’s hands and squeezed tight. Tony swiftly kissed Rosemary’s cheek, she linked her arm through his, and they were on their way. Before long, Rosemary told Tony she felt more like his sister when they met. “There’s nothing wrong with sweethearts giving each other a peck on the lips.”
True to his gentlemanly reserve, Tony responded, “Let’s keep kisses on the mouth private, Ro. And about that ‘quick peck,’ it’d be torture, torture I tell you. I presume you understand?” He was smiling now and kissed her on the cheek again.
Rosemary brushed it away. “Oh, brother.” And she grinned at him. “Well, it’s torturous for me too, Mr. Williamson.”
The compromised, crazy-in-love couple patiently settled for long arm-in-arm strolls through Boston Common. The
y kissed each other’s cheeks between sentences and grabbed a bite to eat if there was money for it. More often, Rosemary packed a couple of sandwiches, a thermos of hot tea or coffee, Oreo cookies, because they were Tony’s favorite, and a package of pink coconut Snowballs, which were hers.
They sat on a public bench, weather permitting, or slipped into the Boston Public Library and found an out-of-the-way corner far from the librarians’ watchful eyes, where they surreptitiously enjoyed what Tony called “the best food in the world, Ro” and deep languorous kisses.
CHAPTER 11
Two features distinguished Irish immigration:
It was largely female, and most Irish who came to the
United States between 1850 and 1925 intended to stay.
IRISH AMERICA: COMING INTO CLOVER
MAUREEN DEZELL
“NEITHER HELL NOR HIGH WATER could make me give you away to a Polack. You’re on your own young woman, weddin’ dress, flowers, the works. I’ll be providin’ none of it.” John Joseph stormed out of the kitchen, and shut the back door so forcefully a surge of holy water splashed from a small alabaster font next to the sash.
Kay, Rosemary, and Rita stood silently in the wake of their father’s edict. There was only the sound of a dripping faucet and neighbor ladies talking across back porches while hanging up wet laundry. The girls would know Mrs. Ryan’s booming lilt anywhere.
“So, did you make a big to-do about Valentine’s yesterday?”
“Are you kiddin’?” Mrs. Farrell hollered back. “I just tell ’em the best way to celebrate Valentine’s is by honorin’ the Sacred Heart of Jesus and offerin’ up a personal sacrifice, like not scratchin’ when they need to or holdin’ a sneeze close so as not to call attention.”
Rita closed the kitchen window, dabbed the consecrated water off the wall with a hankie retrieved from under her sweater cuff and turned to her sisters with a dimpled grin. “Oh, poor Dad, now he’ll have to cancel that ballroom reservation at the Copley Plaza.”
Rosemary could impersonate anyone and was brilliant at her father’s brogue. She sat in a kitchen chair and jauntily leaned forward the way he frequently did when making a point, right index finger puncturing the air. “Ah, it’s a sorrowful day when a once-proud father can’t give his own daughter the grand weddin’ he’s been savin’ for all these years.”
Kay smiled at her sister’s attempt to lighten the moment. “You sound just like him.” But she was angry. “What’s Dad talking about? ‘I’ll be providin’ none of it.’ He doesn’t even provide for us from day to day.” She put a pile of clean plates in an open cupboard with a bang. “All I wanted was for my father to walk me down the aisle.” And then she had second thoughts. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. He’d come to the wedding three sheets to the wind anyway. I’ll tell Steve’s family he’s under the weather. One of my brothers will have to do the honors. I need to find a wedding dress. They’re so expensive … maybe Mr. Karp … No, I don’t want to start our marriage out in debt.
Rita practically read her sister’s mind. “Don’t worry, Kay. Mum won’t let you go without.”
Rosemary folded laundry, adding to the piles of underwear, socks, towels, facecloths, and more, stacked on the kitchen table. She caught Rita’s eye before saying to Kay, “I have something to tell the future Mrs. Chalpin.”
Her lighthearted delivery told Kay it was something good. “What are you up to, Ro?”
Rita filled the kettle with water for tea, while Rosemary gaily continued. “Patsy Sheehan’s New York cousin recently got married, and when I told Mrs. Sheehan about you and Steve, she wrote to her niece and asked could she find it in her heart to let you borrow her wedding gown and veil. Seems they’re coming to Boston anyway for some kind of anniversary Mass. Oh, and her answer was, yes!”
“You’re kidding me?”
“It gets better, Kay. But you’ll have to wait ’til Mum gets home.”
“Ro, come on! Out with it.”
“I can’t. Mum needs to tell you.”
“Ro!”
It blessed Norah to say her firstborn’s full name though it was not the one she’d given her at birth. Within months of little Noni Virginia King’s tragic death, Mary Rose King made her Confirmation. Catholic tradition called for the selection of a middle name if one wasn’t already in place. She adopted Noni’s and adapted her own, Rosemary Virginia King.
“Okay, a hint. You’ll have your pick of wedding gowns. That’s all I’m going to say.” The sisters had formed a circle with their arms around each other hugging, laughing, and crying all at the same time, when Norah walked in.
“God in heaven, what’s goin’ on here? You look like a bunch of footballers gettin’ ready for the challenge.”
“We are, Mum,” Rita said. “We’re planning Kay’s wedding.”
Kay ran to her mother and gave her a kiss. “Mum, I understand you have something to tell me.”
Norah looked sternly in Rosemary’s direction. “Rosemary Virginia King.”
“Mum, I didn’t say another word, only that she’d—”
“Where’s your father then?” Norah put her worn canvas grocery bag on the metal sideboard by the sink, opened the pantry, stood on tiptoe, pushed a loose board above the top shelf, slid her purse into the space behind it and quietly let the board down. Previous tenants had created “me own safe deposit box,” which she’d discovered while washing the pantry when they first moved in. Here her pocketbook was safe from John Joseph slyly “borrowin’ a coin or two.”
“He’s out, Mum,” Rosemary answered. As she helped Norah take her long, heavy cardigan sweater off, she relished her mother being so near. Everything looked better, felt better, seemed better when Norah was home.
“Aren’t I dyin’ for a cuppa?” Norah looked toward the stove. “Which one of you darlins put the kettle on?” Rita was quick to take credit and curtsied. “Me, Mum, your favorite daughter.”
Kay curtsied too. “Mum, please?” Her sisters laughed.
The mother of nine remained her usual calm, orderly self. “Come on now, girls. First you’ll need to run that laundry back to the bedrooms, so we can put some cups and saucers on the table. And we’ll put the groceries away too. Then I’ll tell Miss Barbara Catherine King all about it.”
Norah loved these times with her daughters, sitting in the kitchen sipping tea together. Rita took two teaspoons full of sugar and plenty of fresh milk in hers. Rosemary took hers black. She didn’t prefer it that way, but was watchful of her slim figure; and because she drank at least five cups of tea a day, decided to forego the calories. Kay liked hers strong, with milk only. And you never knew how Norah would take hers. She simply drank a lot of it, morning, noon, and night. Today, she stirred in a scant teaspoonful of sugar and smidgen of evaporated milk while peering over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mrs. Connors, next door, doesn’t miss a thing. And isn’t she aware of you gettin’ ready to marry now? Well, God bless her, she ran into Evelyn Barry this week, who was all worked up about her new daughter-in-law. Evidently, she’s an only child. Who ever heard of havin’ only the one? All that aside, Mrs. Barry boldly said she didn’t think the bride was at all blushin’. How else would she have trapped her handsome son with ‘that puddin’ face of hers?’ It’s my opinion that kind of talk, said aloud or thought, just hangs there rottin’ heart and soul.”
Norah went to the icebox and brought a box of Velveeta cheese back to the table with a knife and plate. “Where was I? Oh, it seems the new bride rolled her beautiful weddin’ dress and veil up in a ball, before leavin’ the hall for their two-day honeymoon in Hull, and handed it to her mother-in-law sayin’, ‘Could you please do somethin’ with this? I won’t be needin’ it anymore.’”
Norah got up from the table again. “If me head wasn’t attached, I think I’d go the whole day without it. I bought saltines to go with that cheese.” She got another plate and arranged the crackers in rows before returning. “And didn’t Mrs. Barry te
ll Mrs. Connors, ‘She’ll be needin’ it all right, for a second go ’round with another husband if she doesn’t change her spoiled ways.’ Well, Mrs. Connors, bein’ the saint that she is, took Mrs. Barry aside, put her straight, and—”
Rosemary interrupted. “Mum, please, tell Kay about the wedding gown.”
The sisters were astonished at the length of Norah’s story. Their mother was ordinarily a woman of few words—not quiet, but choosy. “God help us, I’m becomin’ like Mary Callanan, goin’ on and on with everythin’ this one and that one had to say.” Norah sat back. “Well darlin’ girl, the dress and veil are yours for the askin’.” Her sea-blue eyes were glistening. “It’s so pretty, Kay, so pretty. But I understand there’s also the chance of a borrowed dress from New York.”
Kay glowed with hope. “Mum, when you say the dress is mine for the asking, does that mean it would really be mine?” Kay reached for a slice of Velveeta and made a saltine sandwich.
“That’s exactly what it means, yours to keep. Mrs. Connors offered to take it off Mrs. Barry’s hands makin’ it seem like a great favor and it’s in her possession now. She was lookin’ out for your interest alone, Kay. With seven sons, Fiona Connors’s no need of a weddin’ dress.”
Kay loved the idea of the dress being her own. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. “Mum, when can I see it?” Norah took one more sip of tea and stood up. “We’ve only to go next door. Mrs. Connors’s waitin’ for you.”
When Kay walked out of Mac and Fiona Connor’s bedroom, her sisters right behind her, Norah clasped her hands beneath her chin and said, “If you don’t look like an angel.” The future bride didn’t say a word.
Earlier the girls had asked Norah if she’d mind waiting in the hall; they wanted to surprise her. Now the overjoyed mother took the dark-haired daughter her husband called Snow White by the hand and led her into the living room. “The light’s better, and Mrs. Connors is dyin’ to see you.”
Fiona Connors had been listening for Kay’s response and spoke up from her favorite roost, the worn to an indented comfort corner of a maroon sofa. “Kay, you’re not to feel obligated now.”
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