Two weddings, two guest lists, two invitations, two receptions, one bride, one groom and a tremendous amount of planning.
Norman’s parents made complete provision for the Beacon Hill ceremony and their invitation read:
Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Andrew Prescott
request the honour of your presence
at the marriage of
Ann Sheehan
to their son
Norman Alden Prescott
Saturday, the twenty-sixth of July
One thousand nine hundred and forty-two
at half after three o’clock
24 Louisberg Square
Boston, Massachusetts
Dinner reception to follow
Mr. and Mrs. Prescott felt a civil ceremony would be best in light of Patsy’s Catholicism and told her so. Actually, Mrs. Prescott told her so. “I’m afraid our people would embarrass you dear. There’s not one who would have any idea when to stand, kneel, or sit in your church, or do you call it a cathedral? It doesn’t matter,” she added with the wave of a hand. “This way you’ll have an unspoiled memory of the most important day of your life right here, in your future home’s garden.”
Patsy loved Norman too much to object, but didn’t take the slight lying down and insisted a Gate of Heaven wedding should take place first. “I’m afraid my people would consider us adulterous without the blessing of the church.”
It was later in the evening, after the “mock wedding,” while Tony and Rosemary were sitting together on a Romanesque stone bench in the Prescott’s verdant, walled garden that he proposed marriage, and eagerly slipped a diamond ring on her finger.
She promptly handed it back. “Tony Williamson. Please, not until I give you my answer.”
“I’m sorry, Ro. I’ve never proposed marriage to anyone before.” Tony smiled, got down on one knee, and this time held the ring before his intended. “Rosemary King, will you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Steady splashing sounded from a nearby fountain that gently misted on all within its range, and Rosemary’s eyes glistened as she answered. “Yes, Tony. Of course I will.”
He stood and swept Rosemary into his arms. Her pastel handbag fell onto the damp, moss-encrusted brick walk, but neither of them seemed to care. It was the kind of kiss you remember until the day you die, the kiss that takes your breath away, the kiss that seals your love-filled heart to another ’til death do us part.
Music drifted out to the garden from the reception inside and the small band’s crooner smoothly sang what became their song forever. “Our Love is Here to Stay.”
The stars were out in great force that crystal-clear June night, and the newly engaged couple tried to locate constellations. “How about this one, Tony? What’s the name of this one?” Rosemary said as she held her left hand out and the diamond ring sparkled.
“That’s what they call a rose, a rose-cut diamond.”
Rita and Rosemary were making so much noise Norah got out of bed, knocked on the girl’s bedroom door, softly coughed, and loudly whispered, “What in God’s name is goin’ on in there?” She coughed again.
Rita opened up to her mother’s disapproving frown. “Sorry, Mum.” She smiled and couldn’t help but giggle.
“There are people tryin’ to sleep, and I’m assumin’ you’ve forgotten what your father’s like if he’s been unduly wakened?” Norah tied the sash on her chenille robe, looked at Rosemary, and broke into her own smile. “Show it to me. Show me the ring.”
“How did you know, Mum?” Rosemary coyly held her left hand behind her back.
“There’s no mistakin’ a girl in love, and a girl in love with a diamond ring on her finger glows all the more. Now let me have a look!”
Rosemary supported her left wrist with her right hand. “Can you believe it, Mum? I’m going to be a wife?”
“And when exactly are you plannin’ on becoming a wife, Rosemary Virginia?” Norah asked with a grin, and then the cough that had been so persistent these last few months came again.
Rita kept interrupting with “Ro!” and “Congratulations!” and “Here comes the bride.”
“Tony wants to finish college first. He’s so close. And then there’s the Service.”
“Well, it’s certainly sensible to wait, but it’s not goin’ to be easy, now is it? I’m speakin’ to you as a mother ought to, Rosemary. And it’ll do you no harm to pay attention too, Rita Margaret. No doin’ things you shouldn’t before the weddin’. Wait, darlin’. You’ll not regret it.”
“I know, Mum. Don’t worry.” Rosemary was embarrassed, and Rita had no response other than her face turning pink in complete contrast to her mother’s paleness.
“And Rosemary, you’re not to be discouraged by anythin’ your father may say. This is a happy time. You’ll need to let his words run off your back like water off a duck. Promise me you’ll do that.”
“Mum, nothing could color my happiness.” She took her mother’s hand and squeezed it.
“He’s a good boy, and you’re goin’ to have a good life together.” Norah kissed Rosemary on the cheek.
Just then, John Joseph appeared in the bedroom doorway, both hands slightly above his head, pressing against the jamb on either side. “You can stop your whisperin’. I know all about it.”
He blinked his eyes against the light and faced Rita. “I heard you screechin’. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful Ro,’ and you.” He turned to Rosemary. “‘Look at my diamond,’ and all the rest of your blatherin’. Marry ’em, see if I care, but the same goes for you as Kay. I’m not payin’ for a weddin’. Especially with your mother not workin’ again and the doctor bills. What am I sayin’? If we didn’t owe a penny, I’d still not spend one on your Dago weddin’.”
“That’s fine with me, Dad,” Rosemary said. Norah tried to muffle her cough but wasn’t very successful. Her hand dropped to her chest, and she coughed again.
Rosemary asked, “Mum, what can I do to help you?”
Before Norah could get the words out of her mouth, John Joseph still squinting, had more to say. “Don’t get cheeky with me, young woman. ‘That’s fine with me, Dad.’ Like how it’s goin’ to be is up to you. I’m not payin’, and I’m the one to say whether it’s goin’ to be fine or not.”
He grabbed Rosemary’s arm. “Do you understand?”
She answered respectfully only for the benefit of her mother. “Yes, Dad, I understand.”
“Now who’s goin’ to make me somethin’ to eat?”
It came about so quickly, or so it seemed. Norah had been living with a bump on her right foot for some time, not giving much thought to the sporadic throbbing or slow-but-sure increase in size.
All three girls knew about it, but when they expressed their collective concern, their mother would answer, “It’s nothin’. Sure and we’ve better things to be thinkin’ about.”
Shortly after Norah returned to work, the pain became so severe she took aspirin constantly and regularly put her foot in a pan of warm water for relief. It was sixteen-year-old Patrick who took notice this time. “Mum, you’re sure soakin’ your foot a lot. What’s the matter with it?”
“I’m not sure, darlin’, but I think it’s time to see the doctor.”
“I’ll go with you, Mum.” Patrick stepped closer. “Do you need more hot water?”
“You’re a good son, Patrick Henry. But no, thank you. What I need to do is go downstairs and ask Mrs. Flynn if I can use her telephone to make a doctor’s appointment.”
Norah wearily reached for the skinny sixteen-year-old, her seventh child, the one who so easily slipped between the cracks of her attentions. “We’ll stop by Joe’s Spa on the way home and get you one of those chocolate frappes you’re so fond of. Would you like that, Patrick?”
Joe’s Spa was a specialty sandwich luncheonette and soda fountain popular with people of all ages but above all, teenagers and young adults. Truth be known, Patrick was mortified by the thought of walking in with his
mother, but couldn’t pass up the chance to gulp down one of those delicious frappes. “You bet, Mum.”
Doctor Petrukonis was puzzled as to why Norah hadn’t brought the walnut-sized lump to his attention sooner. “Mrs. King, we’ve lost some precious time here.”
“To tell you the truth, Doctor, I just thought it was from bein’ on me feet so much. But after a long soakin’ in Epsom salts, I’m good as new. It’s nothin’ really just a little painful is all. Can’t you take care of it here in the office?”
According to Lorayne Joyce Carberry, Southie native, “Joe’s Spa was the place to go. You could meet all your friends there and I could hardly wait to get my Ken (Carberry) in the the door when we first started dating so all the girls could see what a handsome guy my guy was.”
Joe’s Spa
481 BROADWAY
SOUTH BOSTON, MASS.
Much to Norah’s protest, and for the second time that year, Doctor Petrukonis needed to admit her to City Hospital for another surgery.
Rosemary, Rita, and Pat sat side by side on hard, wooden chairs in the hospital’s crowded, noisy waiting room where families gathered like nesting birds, their necks craned in anticipation of news about loved ones. Finally the anxious trio heard someone call, “King, is the King family here?”
They jumped to their feet and stood like soldiers at attention. Doctor Petrukonis recognized them and saw that the father wasn’t here this time. Pat felt he needed to be the man of the family and spoke first. “How’s our mother doing, Doctor?”
“Mrs. King came through the surgery just fine. She’s already awake, but you won’t be able to see her until she’s out of recovery.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” they said.
And Rosemary asked, “Can we visit our mother tonight?”
“She can see you sooner than that. Say an hour or so.”
Rosemary turned to her siblings. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I’ve got to get back to work or I’ll lose my job.”
The fatigued doctor—this had been his third surgery today—suggested, “Let me walk out with you.” He lightly touched Rosemary’s elbow and discreetly said, “There’s more Miss King, but I think it would be better to discuss it in my office.”
I knew it. Blessed Mother of God, please help us. Rosemary had certainly seen her mother under the weather before, however this time was different.
Norah had been meeting every worried inquiry with a plausible explanation. Her constant cough was “a tickle in me throat,” and her pale yellow-gray pallor was “I’m at the tail end of recuperation. Come fall I’ll be apple-cheeked again. You’ll see.” Lately, there was a faint odor when she entered a room, not greatly noticeable, but definitely there. It was, if there is such a thing, a sweet, rotting smell which Rosemary didn’t understand at all. Her mother was fastidious about personal hygiene and instilled the same standard in her children. “It’s true what they say now and don’t forget ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’”
Doctor Petrukonis and Rosemary King walked down the stuffy hallway in identically paced swift steps. The doctor’s shoes were gum-soled and quiet, Rosemary’s high heels, a strident rat-a-tat-tat, and then there was carpet.
“Please, have a seat, Miss King.”
“No, thank you, Doctor. I’d rather stand.”
Tall, tow-headed, prematurely balding Doctor Jonas Petrukonis had glasses perched on the tip of his long nose and a stethoscope dangling from his coat pocket. He was the first in his Lithuanian family to graduate from college and was supported through medical school by his parents, aunts and uncles who worked at laboring jobs as lineman, hotel maid, factory worker, seamstress, butcher, rubbish man, and baker. He tried his best to stay detached but couldn’t, and feigned looking for Norah’s records in order to regain composure. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Her file would still be at the nurses station.”
He closed the cabinet drawer and slowly made an about face. “Miss King, there’s no easy way to say this.” He took a couple of steps toward his desk and stopped. “I’m afraid your mother has cancer. We did an exploratory procedure after the tumor removal, and it’s spread considerably. Apparently she’s had it for some time now.”
Rosemary put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.” She felt lightheaded and took a seat.
“Are you all right, Miss King? I can have someone bring you a glass of water.”
Am I all right? The dearest person in all the world to me has cancer. “Thank you. I’m not thirsty, Doctor.”
“I know this is hard to believe, but trust me, I’ve seen enough to identify a malignancy when I see one. And the decline in your mother’s health these last months has been alarming. I’m confident your family will do all they can to make her as comfortable as possible.”
“Of course we will.” Rosemary’s answer was curt. She wasn’t angry, she was anxious.
“The pain will be fairly intense toward the end, and we’ll admit her again if necessary. In either case, I’ll prescribe something to see her through. At best, your mother has about three months.”
Rosemary sat up even straighter, as if her improved posture could improve the situation. Wait a minute “What exactly do you mean?” She knew. It was perfectly clear that her mother was dying. Rosemary was stalling and hoping for a better answer.
He understood; he’d seen it before. “Is there some way I can get ahold of your father?”
Norah’s first born, the one she depended on to co-parent, cooperate, and set a good example, began to tremble. “This can’t be happening. How can you be so sure, Doctor?”
“Your mother has every symptom to support our advanced sarcoma diagnosis, and I’m certain the biopsy will be conclusive. Believe me, Miss King, if I thought there was a ray of hope we wouldn’t be talking as we are.”
Doctor Petrukonis leaned to one side of his chair. “How can I get ahold of your father?”
“That won’t be necessary, Doctor. I’ll tell him. It’ll be best that way.”
“Very well. Here’s my number.” He reached for a pen and pad of paper. “Please tell him not to hesitate to contact me. That goes for you and the rest of the family too.”
“Thank you. I assume my mother doesn’t know yet.”
“She knows, but didn’t know how to tell you. She’s quite a lady, your mother. It was old home week when Mrs. King showed up in the woman’s ward again. The nurses love her.” This was the first time his face looked less than grave.
However, Norah’s fatal diagnosis still hung in the room like a wet sheet, heavy and dripping with sadness.
Dr. Petrukonis saw tears stream from Norah’s beautiful daughter’s eyes, and he waited for Rosemary to make the next move. When she got up to leave, Jonas Petrukonis, also from Southie, whose own mother was only ten years older than Norah, with five children in eleven years as opposed to Norah’s nine in fourteen, who knew the same kind of hard work and scrimping ways but not a minute of domestic abuse or alcohol-related adversity, came out from behind his desk and took Rosemary’s hand. “Miss King, I promise to do everything in my power to see your mother through this with the least amount of suffering.”
CHAPTER 15
Most all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes,
by dozens and hundreds.
Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers and sisters,
aunts and cousins,
but only one mother in the whole world.
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
THE WREATH ON THE FRONT door of the three-decker’s main entrance, its black ribbon blowing in the early October wind, told passersby that someone was being waked within.
Elderly, white-haired Peg Hennessey, clothed in dark colors, kerchief on her head and hankie in hand, sat on a straight-backed chair just inside the door and directed visitors upstairs. “Second floor. Mrs. King, God rest her soul.” It comforted the old woman to do so.
In South Boston, known or not, everyone waked the deceased. To pay your respects
was part and parcel of “being a decent human being.”
Tradition called for a two-day wake at home with a Rosary said on the second night. Funeral and burial were on the third day. Drawn drapes and black ribbons announced the loss, and doors opened wide to the sympathy of family, friends, and caring strangers.
At one point, a line of people went from the Kings’ apartment on Eighth almost halfway up to I Street. Visitors carried flowers, food, spiritual bouquets, and tired children. Hushed conversations hummed with lament, and when some spoke in normal voices, sad eyes stared them down. They continued to arrive well into the dark, and those still waiting left only after Peg Hennessey said, “The family’s exhausted as you can only imagine. They need to be closin’ up for the night. God bless you for comin’, and please come back tomorrow.”
It was only the day before that Norah took her last breath at home, in the presence of John Joseph, Rosemary, Kay, and Rita.
Spiritual Bouquets are similar to secular greeting cards but have religious images such as saints, the Holy Family, Blessed Mother, or Sacred Heart, and sometimes a spray of flowers, such as lilies or roses. The sender pledges to pray a Rosary or Novena, or to attend Mass on behalf of the recipient or their loved one. Or they may sponsor a devout order to do the same.
Patrick, Timmy, and Tommy were downstairs eating breakfast in the landlady’s apartment. Marie Flynn thought it was the least she could do under the circumstances. I can’t believe Norah King is in her final days now, last rites and all. God bless her dear soul. She told Rosemary, “Send your brothers to me right after Mass, so you can have some peace and quiet with your mother. I’ll make ’em pancakes and eggs.”
Rita and Rosemary were on either side of the bed, each holding their mother’s hand, and Kay stood by Rosemary with one hand resting on Norah’s knee.
John Joseph remained at the foot of the bed, stiff as a statue.
The room was quiet, and Norah lay completely still, her flannel nightgown buttoned to the very top, faded, auburn-gray hair in one long braid, and face so pale there was little contrast with the pillowcase, and then she moved. Norah reached for Rita’s face, and her gasping words began. “For the love of God …”
The Red Coat Page 16