“I’m not there yet. They’re looking for someone to work side by side with the controller’s secretary. Miss Gilmore recommended me, just me, Ro, she says I have what it takes, but asked the most peculiar question beforehand.” The two sisters made a classic silhouette leaning across the table confiding what they didn’t want others to hear. “She asked, ‘Are you sure you’re Irish? King doesn’t sound like an Irish name.’”
“You’re as Irish as Saint Pat. Honestly!”
“I told her that.” They sat back again. “Ro, is there any chance I could borrow your red coat?” The object in question lay between them in the booth, and Kay put her hand on it. “The interview is next week, and I’d feel like a million dollars walking into that bank wearing your red coat.”
“Of course you can borrow it.” Rosemary motioned for the waitress. “But just for the interview, all right? There’s a hankie in the right pocket. Please don’t use it.”
The middle-aged waitress whose nametag said she was “Trudy,” arrived at the table and grinned. “You young women need hot water again? Say yes, and you’re gonna float outta here.”
“No, thank you. Just the check please,” Rosemary said, and she offered a kind word. “Your handkerchief looks so pretty,” referring to the pink, crochet-edged hankie artfully ruffled and pinned to Trudy’s uniform.
“Edith over there did it for me. I couldn’t make a handkerchief look like this if my life depended on it.” She collected their dishes. “Thanks, doll. I’ll be right back.” Trudy returned with a box of muffins, told the girls, “No charge. They’ll never miss ’em,” winked, and put the check on the table.
Kay reached for the check. “I’ve got it, Ro. Thanks again for letting me borrow your coat. Oh, can I borrow your dress gloves too? Mine have seen better days.”
It took Norah a long time to recover from her hysterectomy, and the family had to tighten their belts with three wage earners out of the house now and Norah too weak to work.
Rosemary helped, but it wasn’t enough to make up for the others, let alone cover her mother’s medical expenses and supplement her father’s daily drinking, card playing, and “hale fellow” need to many times pick up the pub tab for others. Something had to give.
Norah and John Joseph slowly walked the strand along Carson Beach, side by side, no physical contact, looking straight ahead as they discussed how to keep hearth and home together, and Norah told her husband she was ready to go back to work. “Maybe two nights to begin with, and when I’m stronger, I can easily pick up more. There’s always cleanin’ to be done in the city of Boston.”
John Joseph said, “I’ve no doubt the two nights will be too much, considerin’ the shape you’re in, Norah King, and then what? Back to City Hospital? No. You need more time. There’s only one solution. Rita has to quit school. We need the money.”
Norah would have nothing to do with it. “And what kind of future would she have then, John, without a high school diploma to her name? We’ll manage. Haven’t we always? I’m good enough for the work.” Norah was still looking straight ahead.
“Listen to me now. The decision’s not yours to make. Rita workin’ only the few hours on a Saturday won’t do.” John Joseph was adamant. “I’m the head of this household, and I say she quits school.” He turned to Norah, removed his tweed cap and ran his hand over his hair. “Besides, Rita’s got a pretty face and comely shape. She’ll have no trouble marryin’.” He put his cap on again with a decisive tug. “That’s her future.”
Norah was silent.
“You know, Norah, none of this of this would be happenin’ if Kay was still livin’ at home. She’s got that fancy bank job now, makin’ good money, and none of it comin’ to this family.” He thought it very peculiar that Norah smiled.
But it is, John. How in the world do you suppose I’ve been keepin’ food on the table? Every payday, Kay secretly got cash to her mother with the understanding that it was from Steve too.
“God only knows why you’re smilin’, Norah King. Did they take your sense out in that operatin’ room as well?” John Joseph said it with a seldom-seen lightness.
Against her best effort, Norah’s step faltered, and she reached for John’s arm but he caught her first. “Lean on me.” He circled her waist in the most supportive way possible, his ghost of an Irish whisper caught midst wind and sea. “Mo ghrá.” My love.
Sister Veronita was shocked and saddened when Rita King told her, “Don’t look for me on Monday, Sister. I won’t be here.”
All three King girls had been her students. And Rita, not unlike her older sisters, was a pleasure, even though she was tardy almost every time she entered the classroom, whether at the beginning of a new school day or after lunch. Sister Veronita only remembered having one other student who was constantly late. Her name was Diane Early but when the patience-worn nun began calling her “Diane Late” in front of the entire class, “Miss Late” became decidedly more punctual.
However, the good Sister couldn’t bring herself to shame Rita to do the same, though the thought had crossed her mind. Ah, royalty has at last arrived. Make way for Miss King, who enters my classroom whenever her majesty deems it convenient. Truth be known, Sister favored Rita King, hoped she’d consider going into the convent, and even prayed about it. She loved the girl’s kind heart.
Rita’s classmates forever shunned Mary Ellen Dugan. With her pigeon-toed walk, eyeglasses thick as Coke-bottle bottoms, and manner of speaking that brought saliva to the corners of her mouth every time she opened it, Mary Ellen Dugan was not at the top of anyone’s list. More than once, Sister Superior had lamented, “God love her. The poor girl can’t help herself.”
There was a good chance of being outcast by other students if you were seen with such an unpopular, unfortunate creature as Mary Ellen. But that didn’t scare Rita, who was popular, and she befriended her awkward classmate without hesitation. She liked Mary Ellen’s sense of humor, and despite outward appearances, Mary Ellen had an extraordinarily high IQ, was really good at math, and never hesitated to help Rita or anyone else who struggled with their sums. When the other girls saw them together, they’d whisper, “Why’s Rita King walking with Doggie Dugan?” and “My mother says, you become like the friends you spend time with. It’d be a shame if Rita started spittin’ when she talks, like her new best friend does.”
Now, in the midst of tremendous disappointment and pending embarrassment at having to quit school, Rita was completely unaware she’d been recommended for an unlikely honor.
Sister Veronita petitioned the other nuns at Gate of Heaven to please make an exception for this year’s upcoming May Procession. She nominated high school junior Rita Margaret King to be the girl who would place a crown of roses on the church’s lifelike statue of Mary, the Mother of God and Queen of the May.
“Rita can’t even finish out the year. The mother’s sick, and the father insists she has to get a full-time job.” The Sisters of Saint Joseph were more than sympathetic.
Traditionally, girls and boys dress in white for the May Procession. An outstanding high school senior girl is prayerfully selected to crown a statue of the Blessed Mother, and beloved hymns are sung, particularly “Bring Flowers of the Rarest,” affectionately known as “Oh Mary! We Crown Thee”
“Tsk-tsk.”
“It’s not right.”
“School’s almost over.”
“We’ve seen this type of situation one too many times, haven’t we, Sisters?”
But they would need more convincing.
Sobriety was John Joseph’s public face, and he was a charmer with a compliment for whoever came his way. Drunkenness and bad behavior were reserved for the pub and family, behind closed doors.
The Kings’ apartment was close to Gate of Heaven, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to enter into passing conversation with one of the Sisters.
“Ah, if it isn’t me children’s favorite nun. And aren’t Mrs. King and I grateful for the fine teachin’ you’re puttin’
into their heads, not to overlook the good Catholic morals you’re givin’ ’em too? God bless you, Sister, God bless you and your kind.” John Joseph King and his kind didn’t fool one of them for a minute.
No matter the trouble at home, those Kings came to school spic and span, homework done, and ready to learn. This included Joe, off to war now, who had a hair-trigger temper, was forever fist-fighting with one boy or another, and spent so much time in Sister Superior’s office he noticed when she moved the Infant of Prague statue from the narrow table behind her desk to a corner bookshelf. “Excuse me, Sister, but why’d ya do that? I liked the little guy where he was.”
For days, Sister Veronita continued to plead her case. “You see how Rita is with poor Mary Ellen, let alone the way she looks after looney Miss Rooney.”
The other nuns softly laughed while Mother Superior scolded from the doorway. “Sister Veronita!”
Sister Louise put her darning down, and came to Sister Veronita’s defense. “Reverend Mother, with all due respect, have you ever heard anyone refer to Miss Rooney as of late without using the word looney in the same sentence?” The nuns laughed again, including Mother Superior who said, “God forgive us.”
Looney Miss Rooney, a spry elfin elderly woman, spent her days helping the good Sisters with baking, dusting and running errands. It was her pleasure and pride, until she quietly slipped into senility.
One Sunday, Rita and her girlfriends were walking home after Mass, when they found Miss Rooney wandering with no idea where she had come from or where she was going. The teenage trio got her home.
Later that week, Rita arranged a “Miss Rooney rotation.” In turn each girl committed to escort the bewildered woman to Sunday Mass and back. Often their mothers would provide her dinner. “Run this plate over to Miss Rooney like a good girl.”
Before long, the girls established a service club Sister Veronita heartily sponsored and named the Daughters of Saint Christopher: “Young women who find time for the benefit of our dear ones who are lost in one way or another.”
Cool spring rain pattered against windows in the convent parlor that evening, while the fireplace provided warmth and Sister Estelle played old-fashioned favorites on the piano. It was good to be home.
The sisters were their usual productive selves, correcting papers, sorting teaching materials. One was mapping out plans for this year’s May Procession and asked, “If each of you could please provide me with the number of boys and girls in your classes.” Another suggested, “This would be a good a time to decide who’ll have the honor of crowning.”
They were discussing devout young ladies of merit and grace, and Sister Veronita made one final appeal to the women she respected most in the world, these Sisters of Saint Joseph who were her family. “Rita has a heart of gold, and I say we give this tribute to the girl who so closely follows our Blessed Mother’s loving example of comfort and mercy.”
The sisters were unanimous in their decision. Rita King would place the crown. “In honor of our Blessed Mother, for whom this holy church is named, Mary, Mother of God, Gate of Heaven.”
CHAPTER 14
Christ be with me, Christ be within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me
Christ beside me, Christ to win me
Christ to comfort me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger
SAINT PATRICK’S BREASTPLATE
SAINT PATRICK, FIFTH-CENTURY CENTURY IRISH CLERIC
STRAIGHT HAIR FELL LIMP AND curly hair kinked up.
That summer was brutally hot and clammy, with temperatures well over ninety and humidity almost as high. Talcum powder mercifully saved the day, and children looked like little ghosts with Johnson’s Baby Powder lightly applied to their tummies, backs and anywhere there was a crease: elbows, ankles, knees and neck. Women dusted Cashmere Bouquet on places too private to mention in an effort to stay fresh, while Mennen’s Talc tended to masculine needs. At night, bed sheets were liberally sprinkled with the soothing powders, so sticky bodies could glide comfortably into sleep.
Castle Island
With its magnificent views of Boston Harbor, its welcoming grassy hill, sandy beach, and circular walkway that extends out over the water—has always been one of South Boston’s most popular places to stroll, play, picnic, and relax. Also known as Fort Independence, the strategic locale and ancient stronghold played a key defense role in the turbulent times of early America.
It was Norah’s best effort to get some relief from the stifling heat of their apartment by taking her children to Castle Island as often as she could for a picnic supper. “It’ll be cooler down by the water,” she told them.
There, they all—Rita, Pat, Timmy, Tommy, and Rosemary when she could make it—enjoyed sandwiches, macaroni or potato salad, strawberry-flavored Zarex to drink, watermelon, and quartered “it goes further that way” slices of marble, raisin, or banana loaf cake.
In the early years, before the tragic loss of their little girl, John Joseph gladly went along as well, and when there was extra money, he’d offer to buy ice cream cones on the way home. “If any of ya’s are interested I’ve a few coins here.”
The children would screech, “Really, Dad?” “Honest?” and practically tumble over each other as they ran up to the window of a seasonal snack shack by the Sugar Bowl walkway.
After Noni’s death, he preferred pub grub to picnics at the beach, the place his “little water baby” loved the best.
These simple times became cherished memories, and years later when Rita had children of her own who never knew their grandmother Norah, she spoke of eternity’s shore. “In heaven we’ll all go on Castle Island picnics with Grammy King.”
Rosemary loved her new job as a social worker for the City of Boston and her second one of getting Patsy Sheehan down the aisle. Her best friend was getting married.
“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Rosemary was able to put any budding thought of jealousy aside, because she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that her bridal day was coming. Tony Williamson was definitely “the one.”
Patsy’s parents didn’t know whether to be happy or distressed with their daughter’s choice, a Boston Brahmin boy, Beacon Hill born and bred.
Mrs. Sheehan chirpily encouraged, “At least she’ll be well provided for.”
But Mr. Sheehan was concerned, “Just so his people treat our Patsy right.”
The couple met the same night Rosemary and Tony did, at the Christmas party in Milton.
Once Norman Alden Prescott met Patricia Ann Sheehan, he knew he had to see her again and immediately invited the petite beauty and her friends to go ice skating with his crowd the very next day. But before he could get an answer, Cordelia Parker strategically pulled him away. The moment of opportunity had passed, that is, until he spotted Patsy admiring the Christmas tree with other party guests, happily oohing and ahing as they pointed to exquisite ornaments.
Norman instantly left a lively group discussion on the war in Europe and completing one’s education versus enlisting in the Armed Services with a simple “Excuse me.” He rushed to Patsy’s side, and once again extended the invitation.
Patsy accepted, they connected, and now, six months later with the country at war and his military duty just round the corner, the unlikely couple—six-foot-one, WASP Norman and five-foot-two, Irish Catholic Patricia, who friends fondly called “Mutt and Jeff”—were to be married in record time like so many other wartime couples.
Norman’s Mayflower-descendent parents had their own misgivings. “Do you think she’ll fit in dear?” his mother had asked his father, “I mean she is from South Boston, and things are so very different over there. Her people are grocers for goodness sake, not exactly what we had in mind for our son, let alone his progeny.
Mr. Prescott misleadingly appeared to be without apprehension. “Don’t you remembe
r, Charlotte? My parents thought you and I were mismatched because your family hadn’t lived on the Hill that long. As twenty-year residents, you were upstarts according to their standards.”
Mr. Prescott thought it best to keep his true feelings to himself. And now our grandchildren will have Irish blood in their veins. Fortunately my parents aren’t alive to witness their grandson’s interracial marriage. “Not to worry dear. Norman has a level head. He’d never make a foolish match.” Unconventional perhaps, but never foolish or so I hope.
“Of course you’re right,” Mrs. Prescott said somewhat unenthusiastically. “Now, if I can only get his betrothed to drop that dreadful Patsy and go by her middle name. Ann sounds so much better with Prescott, don’t you agree, dear?”
Patricia Ann Sheehan and Norman Alden Prescott were married in Gate of Heaven Church only two months after Steve and Kay. The flowers at their wedding were amongst the prettiest anyone remembered seeing. This was Patsy’s time to shine both as bride and talented florist. However small her concession, Patsy still considered herself a florist, but after “I do,” never practiced her trade again other than arrangements for her home, another Gate of Heaven wedding, and three South Boston funerals.
Father Norris presided but only because the groom had agreed to and signed a document stating they’d raise their children as Roman Catholics.
Norman Prescott possessed a peaceful nature and didn’t tell his parents about the church’s requirement. At least for now, what they don’t know won’t hurt them or Patsy. And he chose his words carefully when they’d asked prior to the slated wedding date, “How are things coming along with the Catholics?”
“Fortunately Mother and Dad, there’s no objection to marrying us in the church.”
Norman’s parents, however, had their own objections.
The second wedding, or the “mock wedding,” as Patsy called it, took place with a judge officiating in Mr. and Mrs. Prescott’s garden.
The Red Coat Page 15