Rita welcomed Sister Veronita’s warm embrace. “I’m glad you’re here, Sister.” She politely acknowledged the other nun too. “Good afternoon, Sister Agnes.”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Sister Agnes said, her clasped hands hidden within the folds of her habit’s sleeves.
“Thank you, Sister.”
Rita tried hard to hold back her tears, and did, until Sister Veronita said, “It’s a fast-fading tradition Rita, but Sister Agnes and I want to honor your mother’s memory by sitting up with her these two nights. We’ll return later this evening and keep vigil. She’ll never be alone, and neither will you, dear. Your mother will always be watching over you from heaven.”
Norah’s youngest daughter, her sixth child, began to gently weep. Sister Veronita removed her glasses, wiped her own tears away, and was about to speak again when the whole room stopped, as if it were electrical and someone had pulled the plug.
All eyes looked down the hall, toward the kitchen as John Joseph wailed for the second time, “Norah, Norah, come back.”
Most visitors assumed Mr. King was inebriated, and there wasn’t one who’d deny him his pint or whiskey at a time like this. But he hadn’t had a drop.
Early the third morning after Norah passed away, shortly before it was time for Mr. Gorham to close Mrs. King’s casket, the family privately said their final goodbyes with kisses, pats, tears, and in John Joseph’s case, questions and edicts. Why are you leavin’ me now, Norah? Haven’t we still children to care for? And if you think I’m ever takin’ another step into the house of God after today, you’re sadly mistaken. He’s got you, and that’s all the more He’ll ever get from me.
Timmy bided his time and quietly asked Rosemary’s permission to leave something with the person he knew loved him more than anyone else in the world.
“Yes, of course you can,” she gently answered, pulling him toward her for a hug, “but be sure Dad’s not looking.”
The determined eleven-year-old reached in his corduroy trousers pocket for the ribbon he’d lifted from the heart-shaped wreath the night before. And by the grace of God, “Timmy, who, God bless him, has the best heart,” as his mother said time and again, was able to tuck his final goodbye, Beloved Mother, under Norah’s satin pillow without being noticed.
When Norah King’s funeral procession arrived at New Calvary Cemetery, the two caskets were already side-by-side; a spray of red roses sat atop Norah’s and Noni’s was covered with a white, cross-embroidered, linen cloth that gleamed in the intermittent autumn sun. One lady was heard to say, “Why, it’s as bright as an angel.”
Rita walked up to the site with her father, followed by Johnny and Pat, then Timmy and Tommy, behind them Rosemary and Tony, then Kay and Steve. Everyone else followed. Rosemary and Kay reached for each other at the sight of the two caskets and held on. “Ro, it’s as if our Noni was waiting for Mum.”
The little boys stood close to the casket, and Tommy whispered hurriedly for both of them, “We didn’t know you, but you’re still our sister, and we wanted to say hello.”
Rosemary thought she would fold, just fold with the sorrow of it all. “Now she won’t be alone anymore.”
A cold wind suddenly came up, and several people looked toward the sky. The Irish-born priest in attendance slowly walked over to John Joseph and whispered, “Do you want the child’s presence acknowledged, Mr. King?”
The beleaguered widower took his hat in his hands. “Just get it over with, Father.”
Father Seamus Michael Casey did a heartfelt graveside ceremony as his long vestments blew about and those in attendance shivered. “You’ll also want to please remember Noni King, Norah’s namesake, in your prayers.”
Thunder rolled. This time all eyes turned heavenward and the few people that had umbrellas became stations of shelter for those who didn’t.
The astute, old priest silently prayed as everyone regrouped. Dear God, forgive me, but I’ve not a lot of confidence in the father lookin’ after his children. Protect them from harm and please keep each one strong in the faith of their dearly departed mother.
Father Casey took one step forward and cleared his throat. “It’s said in the book of Isaiah that, ‘a little child shall lead them,’ and isn’t this little girl,” he turned toward the smaller casket, “leading the way home to heaven for her own dear mother, perhaps at this very moment?” A fierce downpour sounded hard on the umbrellas and on the canvas canopy over the gravesite, almost drowning out the priest’s remaining words. “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.”
Out of seemingly nowhere, the sad cry of a bagpipe was heard through the downpour, and its sweet refrain took refuge in the hearts of all present.
The staff at New Calvary Cemetery often saw Father Francis R. Burke, S. J., or Father Frank, as he was known to his students at BC High School, slowly walking among the gravestones, where he earnestly played his bagpipes, thinking this was a place where no one would object to the noise. And it was there on consecrated ground that God led him to provide musical closure for grieving families, unannounced.
This stormy day, for the mother and child, it would be, “Ave Maria.”
We slumber safely til the morrow …
O Maiden, see a maiden’s sorrow,
O Mother, hear a suppliant child!
Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Ave, ave dominus,
Dominus tecum,
Ave Maria
CHAPTER 16
You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
ANONYMOUS
TONY KNEW ROSEMARY NEEDED TIME to collect her thoughts. She’d had to make some difficult decisions lately and was eager to “get the house back in order,” her coping phrase for the heartbreaking task ahead. Taking the King boys out on Saturday would give her and the two nuns who were coming to help almost a whole day to do so. Tony had “just the ticket, Ro,” and invited the King brothers to the movies and gave them candy money too.
Red Sox loyalties clearly understood, there wasn’t a boy in Southie who didn’t want to see The Pride of the Yankees, starring Gary Cooper as baseball great Lou Gehrig, now showing at the Strand Theater.
“You’ve got a nickel each, so be thinking of what you want.”
Tommy already knew he wanted a Sugar Daddy, because the big caramel lollypop lasted so long. Timmy thought Necco Wafers would be his best bet. “You get a lot, and if I suck instead of bite, maybe I’ll have some left over.” Pat asked for a box of Cracker Jack and gave the prize inside to Tommy.
A few days earlier, when Tony suggested the idea to Rosemary as they strolled along Pleasure Bay, she was disappointed in his lack of judgment. “Absolutely not. What will people think if my brothers show up at The Strand so soon after their mother passed away?”
“Listen, Ro, I don’t want to do anything improper, but these kids have been through a lot. Who’d deny them? Besides, do you really want three wild fellas around when the good sisters from Saint Augustine’s arrive?”
When they stopped to enjoy the view, Tony put his right foot up on the park bench, leaned on his knee, and gave Rosemary his best pitch and a beguiling smile too. “Come on, hon, let’s give them a break.”
Tony liked these kids. Teenage Pat had an easy smile, strong skinny build, good-looking dimpled face, golden-brown hair just this side of kinky, and his photographic memory made him one of the best students in the family. Twelve-year-old Timmy was just as lean but more muscular and quick on his feet, and he had an Irish tenor voice that had made his mother proud. “Sure and my Timmy has the makin’ of another John McCormick,” Norah had said. His chestnut hair was tight like Pat’s, and he too had dimples; all the King kids had dimples. And all the King boys had tempers as well, while only one of the girls did.
When Irish dance insructor Moira Brennan saw Tim
my King playing kick the wicket on E. 8th Street, his agility astounded her. “You’ve the same light step as your sister, Noni. Aren’t we always in need of dancin’ boys? Won’t you give it a try?” Certain his friends would call him a “sissy” or even worse—they’d labeled Donal Mulligan “Prancin’ Prince,” and he was forever known as “Prancin’ Mulligan”—Timmy politely declined. “Thanks anyways, Mrs. Brennan.”
As he grew older, Timmy’s looks were, according to Peg Hennessey, “nice enough but not movie-star-good-lookin’ like the others.” The attentive old woman seldom lacked an opinion, and she considered rascally ten-year-old Tommy “the most handsome,” with his deep dimples, sapphire-blue eyes, and abundance of wavy brunette hair. Thomas Augustine was an avid reader, and his genuine love of people made the baby of the family irresistibly charming.
It was the thought of her rambunctious brothers and the two serene nuns all in the apartment at the same time that changed Rosemary’s mind.
“Okay, but no monkeyshines.” She gave Tony a peck on the cheek. “Don’t think that smile’s always going to work Mr. Williamson.” Rosemary got serious again. “They’re to behave like perfect gentlemen out of respect for our mother.”
Tony grinned and promptly saluted.
Rita did her best to get off work so she could help too, but Mr. Schultz, the manager of W.T. Grant gave her a hard time. “Saturday’s our busiest day. There are plenty of girls who’d like to have your job, Rita. Just let me know if it’s too inconvenient for your schedule, and I’ll hire one of them in your place.”
Mr. Adolph Schultz, who changed his name once the war broke out and now went by Al, was a small, difficult man and his position of authority made him even more so, ironically earning him the name of “Little Hitler,” which employees said kiddingly behind his back.
As World War II progressed and many Southie servicemen lost their lives in battle, “Little Hitler” ceased to be amusing and stopped being said.
Dot Reardon, a seasoned waitress who worked the lunch counter, overheard Mr. Schultz’s disgruntlement, and later, when Rita was taking her lunch break, Dot said, “He’s a small man with a big stick. What can you do?” As she slid a hamburger and a coffee frappe across the counter to the pretty, auburn-haired teenager, and then fumbled through her order pad. “Sorry doll face, I can’t seem to find your check.”
Norah’s coat hung right where it belonged, on the third peg of the coatrack by the back door, and more than one family member had hugged it when they thought the others weren’t looking. It still smelled of her favorite fragrance, “soap and water, the best perfume in the world.”
Rosemary looked at the white, child-sized rosary beads hanging on the seventh peg and remembered when Sister Bernadette, who helped all grieving families in Saint Augustine’s parish, had removed Noni’s jacket from that peg and kindly replaced it with the holy beads.
Although the King family had been going to Gate of Heaven for years now, Sister Bernadette offered to help again, “when you’re ready, dear,” with what she knew was one of the most difficult things there is to do after a loved one dies, care for their personal belongings. She was expected any minute now “to help tie up a few loose ends, dear.” They were the only words she could think of for such a mission.
Sister Eugenia, who some thought a mute because of her quiet ways, would be with her.
John Joseph was seldom around, other than to sleep and demand “a change of clothes, decent breakfast, and have me lunch pail packed. It’s the least you can do, seein’ as I’m payin’ the rent.” Still, Rosemary thought it best to ask his permission for the nuns to help. It’d be just my luck he’d be home on Saturday, and God in heaven if all hell wouldn’t break loose.
Last Sunday, she approached her father right after his nap and meekly explained everything, which went against her grain but played into his. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Dad?”
John Joseph sat in his armchair with the bearing of a king and bluntly granted Rosemary’s request. “Fine then. It needs to be done sooner or later, now, doesn’t it?” He characteristically ran his hand over the top of his head, looked away and back at her with glistening wet eyes. “I just don’t want ’em doin’ it when I’m here. Have ’em come on a Saturday when you’re home from work. Hear me, Rosemary? A Saturday. I’ll wait it out at the pub.”
When Sister Bernadette and the much younger Sister Eugenia entered the Kings’ apartment, a sense of well-being entered with them.
Their calm presence and flowing black habits emanated cleanliness, holiness, order. Their movements were purposeful, peaceful, and the soft click-click-click of the beads that fell from their waists seemed to say to Rosemary, Don’t worry, don’t worry, we’re here now, don’t worry, don’t worry you’re not alone.
Sister Bernadette quietly explained, “This is a little sooner than usual, dear, but we want to be of assistance and you sounded somewhat anxious on the telephone.”
“Fiancé” wasn’t a word used in South Boston. “Future husband,” “the person I’m going to marry,” or “my intended,” were. When Rosemary read fiancé in a wedding etiquette booklet Jordan Marsh gave to all their registered brides, she liked it. But she knew better than to use a term some people in Southie might consider “puttin’ on airs,” or worse yet, “uppity.”
“Thank you, Sister Bernadette, Sister Eugenia. Yes, I need to get things in order for my family as soon as possible.” She couldn’t say the reason why. She wasn’t ready yet.
“Oh, Rosemary! You’re engaged!” Sister Bernadette had spotted the ring. “I had no idea! Congratulations! Have you set a date?”
“Yes, early June. Right after my husband-to-be graduates from Boston College School of Business Administration, then we’re off to New York.” Rosemary looked down at her ring and up again. “He has a Navy commission, and his first assignment is in the Big Apple. I’m so thankful he doesn’t have to ship out right away.”
“And who is this fortunate young man?” Sister Bernadette pleasantly asked.
“His name is Tony Williamson.”
“Italian?” The nun comically raised one eyebrow. “I’m surprised your father approved.”
“He’s not Italian, and I can’t convince my father otherwise so we’ve had a time of it. My Tony is actually Scotch-Irish.”
“Well, God bless you two.” Sister Bernadette, despite her almost daily task of helping the living with the aftermath of their dead, was an incredibly cheerful person. “Oh Rosemary, if you won’t be the most beautiful bride.” Her habit and beads swooshed and clicked as she gaily turned to Sister Eugenia. “Beautiful! Beautiful!” Sister Eugenia easily agreed. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you, sisters.” Rosemary was eager to get started, concerned her father might come home early, but she didn’t want to be impolite. “May I get either of you a cup of tea?”
“Later, thank you, dear. We’ll do what needs to be done first and have that to look forward to,” Sister Bernadette answered.
Without further delay, Rosemary led the nuns to her parents’ bedroom, where they made the sign of the cross before entering and calmly removed Norah’s clothes from the closet, and her folded garments from the bureau drawers.
It was evident these humble Sisters of Notre Dame had done this together many times. Their dutiful movements corresponded in sync as Sister Eugenia folded longer items on the bed and Sister Bernadette folded shorter ones in place before stacking them in one of the large cardboard boxes they’d brought along.
Rosemary gathered Norah’s shoes from the closet floor, and when she reached under the bed for her mother’s house slippers, the nuns glanced toward each other with knowing looks of compassion.
Sister Bernadette waited until she could see Rosemary eye to eye again. “Usually we launder and iron these donations before giving them to the poor, but that won’t be necessary this time. You should be very proud, dear. Your mother was quite orderly.”
Sister Eugenia glanced aro
und the neat-as-a-pin bedroom. Its white walls were free of fingerprints or spots, sheer white curtains covered the two windows, the yellowing shades were pulled halfway down, and faded green print drapes were precisely pushed back so all four panels were the exact same width. A large crucifix hung over the neatly made bed, where both pillows were perfectly lined up and tucked under a worn, off-white bedspread.
The floor was dust-free and highly waxed, and there were two unmatched braided rugs, one on Norah’s side of the bed, and the larger on John Joseph’s. A wide dresser took up most of one wall, and several saint cards had been slipped into the frame of the mirror above it. The dresser scarf was starched so stiffly it almost looked like paper and a statue of the Blessed Mother stood front and center, the back of her graceful image reflected in the mirror. The dresser also held photos of the King children, and a slip of palm was still where Norah had placed it, beneath the oval frame that held Noni’s first-grade image.
The only light, other than natural, came from two small lamps. The one on the dresser shone brightly and the one across the room, next to the bed was comparatively dim. A stack of Norah’s books, a pad of paper, pencil, and pen were neatly piled on the seat of a simple pine chair that took the place of a nightstand, and the sturdy short table on her husband’s side of the bed held an alarm clock, a clean ashtray and book of matches, water glass, and a memorial card from Norah’s funeral.
Rosemary lined Norah’s shoes up just so in another box: the sturdy, black, low-heeled lace-ups her mother wore every day, rubber galoshes and Norah’s treasured dancing shoes, brown, crisscross-laced ghillies the immigrant girl brought from Ireland so long ago but couldn’t bear to part with, and her wedding shoes, ivory satin Louis-heeled pumps, now discolored and crumbling with the signs of time. Her daintier, perforated, black, lace-up pumps, reserved for Sundays and special occasions, had been taken to the funeral home.
The Red Coat Page 18