She closed her eyes, coughed deeply, opened them again and looked first toward her husband, then to her two oldest daughters. “Please promise … you’ll look after each other.”
John Joseph supposed she was speaking to the girls only and said nothing as all three leaned in one at a time and kissed her. “We will, Mum,” Rita answered, patting her mother’s hand, while Rosemary barely got the words out, “Please don’t worry, Mum,” and Kay urgently followed with, “Mum, you can depend on …” and that was it.
Norah was gone.
The sisters looked at each other in disbelief, and Kay cried, “The doctor said she had a few more days,” and then they looked at their father. “Dad,” Rita pleaded, “Dad, do something.”
John Joseph tightened his crossed arms and mumbled, “I’ll go get Mr. Gorham.”
Middle-aged, second-generation undertaker, Francis Xavier Gorham—no one in Southie ever remembered seeing his tall, corpulent build in anything other than a dark suit—sat in the Kings’ living room late that Sunday morning, and explained to John Joseph and Rosemary all that would be taking place for the next few days. “First of all, Mr. King, Miss King, thank you for giving me the privilege of serving your family at this most difficult time.”
John Joseph let out a huff, and Rosemary delicately held on to her hankie as Mr. Gorham continued. “Mrs. King should be arriving at the funeral home any minute now, and you can rest assured my staff will take good care of her.”
Rosemary’s unused (and it would remain so) hankie was the R-embroidered Irish linen she’d discovered in a pocket of the red coat. Today it brought back the memory of that afternoon in the kitchen when Norah surprised her with the elegant garment. She could see herself twirling and her mother gleefully clapping as she said, “It’s as if it was made for you darlin’.”
“Your kindness is very much appreciated, Mr. Gorham. Thank you,” Rosemary said with dignity, her expression composed.
“Some of my fellas will come by before dark with the coffin table, extra chairs, and a kneeler.” The experienced undertaker respectfully continued with specific protocol for an at-home Irish wake. “We’ll need to have Mrs. King’s casket in a prominent place in the living room, and of course, the kneeler in front of it. People like to see their flowers so all arrangements should be as close to the casket as possible, and the rest should be in plain sight. Now, to the right, you’ll need one immediate family member or more, other than the spouse, to receive visitors and move them along. There’ll be kneelers and standers alike, but you’ll soon notice that everyone says a prayer. It’s a natural progression. People generally know what to do.”
“Do they now?” John Joseph barked.
Francis Gorham, accustomed to the erratic behaviors of grief, was completely unaffected by the irascible husband and quickly engaged his usual strategy under such circumstances. He spoke in a quieter, compliant tone. “Yes, Mr. King. Now, as the spouse, you’ll be sitting in a chair directly to the left of the casket. People don’t expect you to stand at a time like this, sir. So please don’t feel you must.”
“I don’t give a horse’s arse what people expect.” John Joseph’s hand tightened on the arm of the couch.
“That’s understandable, Mr. King.” The undertaker paused and looked down in order to give the room a chance to breathe; it was something his father taught him about the business years ago.
“All right then, where was I? Ah yes, my fellas will set up chairs along the wall directly to Mr. King’s right, and that’s where the rest of the family’s to be seated.”
Food had been coming in for days: baked beans, potato salad, platters of cold cuts and cookies, cupcakes, fish chowder, soda bread, and more. Caring neighbors used their War Ration coupons to provide for the Kings and many prepared better food for Norah’s family than their own. “It pleases our Lord to no end when He sees His children sacrificin’ for the good of others.”
Kay was writing everything down. “Excuse me, Mr. Gorham, with all due respect, it’s important that the chairs and kneeler selected are in good repair. My mother would have wanted it that way.” Only a month ago she’d been at a wake where all the rented mortuary furniture was shabby.
“Absolutely. You have my word. Our best.” He admired the young woman’s pluck. “We’re almost finished. I know this isn’t easy. Now, there’s no food or drink to be had at a wake, except maybe some whiskey in the kitchen for the men, and smokes too. But after the funeral you’ll want a big spread with a good amount of drink. People need it, you know, to be breaking bread and seeing the sadness through together. Don’t worry about providing anything. I’ve yet to see the deceased’s family have to come up with a crumb or a drop. God bless the goodhearted people of South Boston.”
Mr. Gorham wrote something down in his small, black, spiral-bound notepad. “We’ll move ahead then. Mrs. King’s funeral will take place at Gate of Heaven, and the burial at New Calvary. God rest her soul.”
John Joseph nodded his head but looked as though his thoughts were elsewhere, and they were.
“Don’t worry about providing anything.” Those were the exact words Norah’s employers had used all those years ago. Don’t worry about providing anything after the wedding. We’ll have a grand lunch for your guests and wedding cake like no other. He pictured his bride in her wedding finery and remembered how proud he was to be marrying such a fine young woman, hardworking and comely too. Don’t worry about providing anything.
Without further delay, Mr. Gorham stood, pulled in, and buttoned his coat jacket. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to come to the funeral home, we’ll find a suitable casket and discuss the little girl’s situation too. Say, three o’clock?”
Rosemary, Rita, and Kay and her husband, Steve, accompanied John Joseph to Gorham’s Funeral Home on Broadway, where they were graciously received by Mrs. Eugenia Gorham, a pigeon-breasted woman who softly cooed predictable sympathies. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Of course, it’s much harder on those left behind, now, isn’t it?” She led the family to her husband’s office. “Your mother’s suffering is over, and when you see her again, all will be well.”
John Joseph found it difficult to stay seated in one of the several armchairs surrounding the undertaker’s desk. Particularly after Mr. Gorham asked him about Noni, the forever eight-year-old who rested in a solitary grave at New Calvary Cemetery.
“Mr. King, do you want the child’s casket to be disinterred so we can put her to rest with your wife? This, of course, would require a reorganization of grave sites.”
“I need to go outside. Give me a minute.” The bereft father, and now widower, excused himself twice before the child’s arrangements could be finalized. A reorganization of gravesites, is it? How in God’s name do you expect me to come up with that kind of cash?
The discussion and decisions brought it all back: Noni’s fatal accident, their newborn baby, Timothy, only three weeks old at the time and Norah’s milk drying up while her tears never stopped, Noni’s clothing, her place at the table, and after a while, the slip of the tongue, saying there was one more child in the family than there actually was. The father of nine never did know how to answer that question. If one of your children is deceased, do you subtract them from the total sum?
When Noni died, there was barely enough money to buy one grave, let alone the four suggested by the undertaker at the time. “Even knowing our loved ones’ eternal home is in heaven, it’s a great comfort having them all in the one place here on earth. I’m sorry to say it, but the day will come when you’ll have need for the other spaces.”
The decision was simple then. “We’ll only be takin’ the one.” And now, the need was here.
John Joseph knew he could always borrow money for the gravesites from hoodlums, boyos who made personal loans with notoriously high interest, bodily harm guaranteed should a payment be missed. But that was of little concern. This was his chance to make it up to Noni, who lost her life because of him, or so he’d always bel
ieved, not giving any credence to the fact that the truck driver who ran over her was, as the attending police officer had said, “driving like a bat out of hell.”
As far as John Joseph King was concerned, the sprite of a girl—the child who had his lean build and Norah’s kind spirit—weathered winter, spring, summer and fall in the hard ground, all because she was sent to the store to buy a loaf of his favorite bread.
It haunted him. And no amount of drink would obliterate his ceaseless guilt and ongoing anger with God. Why her? Why not the new baby? We certainly didn’t need the one more, now, did we?
John Joseph returned and gave Mr. Gorham the go-ahead. “You’ll have your money tomorrow afternoon.” They made final arrangements for Noni’s casket to be removed from its solitary grave and buried with her mother’s in what was now the family plot. “And tell those cemetery workers to watch what they’re doin’. I don’t want my daughter left unattended.”
When Noni was waked, the undertaker slid his case of makeup under a bed in the girls’ room and explained, “Sometimes, touchups are necessary, from the kissin’ and all.” Rosemary recalled how upset her mother had been at the exaggeration of rosy cheeks and bee-stung lips. “I understand some color is needed but I’ll not have my little girl lookin’ like a painted kewpie doll.”
In all, there were four spaces, and two of them would be occupied that week.
Rosemary, Rita, Kay, and Steve remained, for the most part, speechless until the three sisters spoke of their mother’s final needs. “Mr. Gorham,” Rosemary spoke first, “we’ll look after our mother’s hair, and please ask your people not to put any makeup on her. Thank you.”
Kay was next. “As you can see, we’ve brought a dress. It’s our mother’s—was our mother’s.” She looked up at her husband, who’d been standing the whole time holding a deep blue, lace-collared, long-sleeved dress on a hanger, being careful not to wrinkle it.
Steve Chalpin tenderly squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, honey.” John Joseph harrumphed, he thought too quietly to be heard. “Cream puff.”
Steve squeezed Kay’s shoulder again.
Mr. Gorham sprang to his feet. “I’m so sorry. My wife should have taken the dress from you earlier.” No sooner had he hung it over the top of a door than the youngest King sister addressed him.
“Mr. Gorham, here are …” Rita didn’t want to say underwear. “Some of our mother’s personal items, and her shoes and stockings too.” She held a Filene’s bag on her lap.
“Thank you. Please forgive me for being so specific, Miss King, but your mother’s legs will be covered. The stockings and shoes won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, they are, Mr. Gorham.” Teenage Rita stiffened, and the bag crinkled. “Our mother’s not walking into heaven barefoot.”
The chagrined, but expressionless, undertaker didn’t argue.
When U. S. Navy Corpsman John Michael King walked into his father’s house, fresh from the Pacific with war in his veins and mourning in his heart, he stood up to John Joseph for the first time in his life.
“Dad, there’ll be no whiskey at my mother’s wake and funeral. None.”
John Michael was ready for a fight but didn’t have to lift a hand. His father, surprisingly and shockingly, complied. And for the next three days, he didn’t drink a drop of alcohol.
Word got out that the wake and funeral would be dry, but men still made their way to the kitchen like lemmings, and instead sipped strong tea in short glasses.
Almost three months to the day of her diagnosis, fifty-year-old Norah Catherine Foley King’s open casket lay on a long narrow coffin table in front of the bowed living room window. The fawn-colored draperies and lace sheers were, in that order, partway and completely closed, providing a lovely backdrop for the lady who did her best to make things lovely, from the way she set her modest table, kept house, raised her children, clothed her family, treated others, practiced her faith, and celebrated special events and holidays.
“Pretty is as pretty does, remember that girls,” is what she’d say. “On the inside, on the outside, and all about.” Norah even wrote the “words to live by” inside each of her daughter’s Daily Missals:
Pretty is as pretty does.
Mary Callanan, Norah’s closest friend, met visitors at the open front door of the Kings’ apartment. “Thank you for coming. It means so much to the family.”
Her daughter Marion took the flowers and cards, putting the former around the living room, and the latter on a doily-lined, wooden tray, while Mary’s twelve-year-old son, Don, ran food back to the kitchen, where landlady, Marie Flynn, and upstairs neighbor Mrs. Flanagan were waiting to put it away. Mary’s husband, Frank, was in the kitchen too, making sure the men’s glasses remained full, even if it was only strong tea.
Patsy Sheehan Prescott personally created a heart-shaped wreath of white mums and other autumn flowers with nine white roses tucked in between, one for each of Norah’s children. The wreath rested on a tall easel, and an ivory satin ribbon across the center read “Beloved Mother” in softest gold script.
Rosemary and Kay stood to the right of the casket greeting visitors and mourners in gentle tones. “My mother thought the world of you.”
“We’ll miss her too.”
“Your flowers are so beautiful.”
“Thank you for remembering Noni.”
“Our father’s in the kitchen right now.”
“John Michael got home late last night. We hoped he’d get here in time to see our mother, but she went quickly. The Red Cross is still trying to locate Joe. We think in Germany.”
“Sister Veronita and Sister Agnes, Rita’s right over there.” Kay indicated with an open hand, mindful, even now, of her mother’s words about a pointing finger being impolite.
When a neighbor insisted Rosemary sit down for a few minutes, she resisted. To do so at a time such as this went against her well-raised character.
“No, thank you, I’m fine. Really.”
Most visitors knelt before the open casket and said a prayer, but others stood to the side and did the same, just as Mr. Gorham predicted.
Some put a kiss on their fingertips and pressed it to Norah’s cheek or forehead.
Doctor Petrukonis cupped his palm over Norah’s Rosary holding hands and was heard to say, “You’re in our Lord’s care now.”
Curious Southie teenagers Lorayne Joyce and her best friend, Jane McDonough, never liked to pass up a wake. Telltale black ribbons welcomed them through unknown doorways, but this time their condolences were far more personal. Jane’s father was Mr. Mac from the drugstore, and her family knew Johnny King’s mother well.
Jane studied Norah’s face. Mrs. King looks just like herself. And Lorayne asked God, Why do you take the nicest people first?
Norah’s scrubwoman friends, eight in all, stood before her casket the longest. These women went together on buses, trolleys, and trains into the heart of Boston five nights a week, and washed the floors of City Hall and other downtown buildings, grateful for the work.
Years later, Jane would have occasion to tell her goddaughter, “The first thing I noticed at your grandmother’s wake was how clean the apartment was. Everything was absolutely immaculate.”
A casual observer might call them old biddies, but these were loyal ladies, sincere in their comments and grief.
“God bless, Norah. She’ll never see her grandchildren.”
“And after how hard she’s worked all these years, puttin’ up with himself and holdin’ the family together.” This said with the greatest discretion, when John Joseph was absent from the room.
“Sure and you can see the girl in her today. Gorham’s does such a grand job of makin’ the dead look good.”
“Heaven and all the angels will be happier for her presence.”
“Norah’s the first one of us to go, and only fifty.”
“Who do you suppose is next then?”
Mary Callanan stood strong by the d
oor but at one point broke down crying and had to leave. “I beg your pardon, but I can barely talk for the sorrow I’m feelin’.” However, she soon returned to relieve Kay who’d taken over her duties. “Sure and a cuppa always helps, now, doesn’t it? Helps, but all the tea in the world isn’t goin’ to bring her back. Your mother and I have always made it our business to see things through together, and this is no different. Sure and she’d do the same for me.”
Mary tenderly patted Kay’s arm. “You can go back to your sister now.”
John Joseph sat directly to the left of the simple, dark wood, lacquered casket as suggested, and was kinder than his older children had remembered him being in many years as he answered visitors.
“Thank you very much.”
“It’s good of you to come by.”
“Yes, she was a fine woman.”
They knew it was the absence of drink that made their father more civil, and the younger children didn’t know what to make of it, other than they wanted him to be like this all the time, “a nice man.”
Many times he took an offered hand in his two, but much to his children’s embarrassment, John Joseph frequently left his post to visit friends in the kitchen. And when he did John Michael stood in his place, concerned the empty chair would be seen as a lack of respect.
Norah trained her brood well. Not one of them could sit comfortably in the presence of an adult and did so only when there was a lull in the line.
“Thank you for saying such nice things about my mother.”
“My father is in the kitchen if you want to see him before you leave.”
The little boys, who were nine and eleven, didn’t say anything other than, “Thank you.” Tommy kept wiping his tears away with the cuff of his white shirt, and every time he did, Timmy leaned close and whispered, “Ya gotta cut it out, Tommy. Yer gonna make us all cry again.”
The Red Coat Page 17