The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Norah’s slippers remained tucked in her daughter’s apron pocket. “Excuse me, please, Sisters. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  Rosemary went to the bedroom she shared with Rita, sat down on one of the beds and held the backless scuffs against her heart. I’m so sorry Mum. I hope you understand. I have to leave this house. I have to.

  When she returned to the task at hand, the good sisters suggested Rosemary save something of her mother’s for each of the children. “It’s been our experience dear, that having even one small item from a lost loved one provides a certain comfort.”

  For herself, Rosemary selected the crucifix Norah wore every day. How many times had she seen her mother seek its solace with a light touch, as if making sure the Savior was still with her?

  Kay was given their mother’s sewing basket because she was the most interested and skilled when Norah brought her daughter’s together one afternoon for instruction. “Sit down now, girls, and I’ll show you what to do with a needle and thread.” It was a flip-topped natural wicker table, lined with fabric pockets for scissors, thimbles, odds, and ends. Norah’s last mending project was still inside, a pair of boys trousers in need of patching.

  Rita received Norah’s pure white with scattered roses tea set for four, a wedding gift from her mother’s employers at the time, the Collins family.

  All the King sisters adored lovely things, but Rosemary felt Rita deserved the fine china set because she’d have the hardest time, being so young without a mother. There was one more item, more precious than the first, which she would give to Rita privately. Kay had Steve and Rosemary had Tony. Who would look after Rita? Certainly, not their father.

  For her brother Joe, Rosemary chose a photograph of their mother, taken shortly before she married. Her abundant tresses were arranged Gibson-girl style on top of her head, her complexion flawless, and expression gently self-assured. The high, lace-trimmed collar of her long-sleeved, pleated-bodice blouse held a cameo broach centered above a medium length string of imitation pearls and made the Irish colleen appear almost aristocratic. But overall her look was undeniably one of a young lady in love.

  The sepia portrait was found among other old photographs in Norah’s seen-better-days valise, stored on the highest closet shelf. A golden imprint on the cardboard frame said,

  Bigelowe Portraits, Tremont Street, Boston

  and written on the back, in Norah’s fine hand:

  To Mr. John Joseph King,

  My own sweet, handsome Joe

  With all my love,

  Miss Norah Catherine Foley.

  September 1917

  Norah’s private pet name for John Joseph came early in their courtship. It seemed even when she spoke his name softly there was always another John close by who answered or looked her way. Joe didn’t seem to be quite as common, and more so, was “very American.”

  Rosemary prayed those written words of affection, although intended for her father, would resonate some kind of blessing for her brother Joe, who was so isolated and needed one in the worst way.

  John Michael, at his own request, took possession of Norah’s Daily Missal and returned to war in the Pacific with it safely packed in his Navy-issue duffel bag. In the distant future, each of his daughters would reverently carry the holy book beneath their wedding bouquets.

  Sister Bernadette approached Rosemary who’d been gathering more of her mother’s possessions on the kitchen table. “If you don’t mind me suggesting one more thing, dear.”

  “Of course not Sister, shoot.” Rosemary practically choked on her last word. Did I really just say, “Shoot” to Sister Bernadette?

  Rosemary would forever regret not taking her mother’s wedding photo for herself that day. It would have been so easy, but for some reason she believed it would always be available when, in fact, she was devastatingly wrong.

  The amiable nun grinned. “Very well, dear. I think it would be best if you kept any remembrance for the younger boys in your personal care until they’re older.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sister, I’ll do it.” Rosemary put the teakettle on a low flame, and returned to her parents’ bedroom.

  For all three, Pat, Timmy, and Tommy, she chose the same thing, Norah’s gloves.

  Her mother’s black wool winter gloves would go to Pat, spring/summer white cotton lisle gloves to Timmy, and the buff-colored kid leather pair with three tiny buttons at the wrist that Norah purchased as a young woman and hadn’t worn for years, went to Tommy.

  Rosemary reasoned. They’re boys who’ll one day be men who may not want a remembrance until I explain, the hands that cradled you, fed you, bathed you, worked for your keep, washed your clothes, led you to church—these gloves held those precious hands. Please take them and may you never forget how very much you were loved by our mother.”

  Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral

  That’s An Irish Lullaby

  Words & Music by J.R. Shannon

  Over in Killarney,

  Many years ago,

  Me Mither sang a song to me

  In tones so sweet and low.

  Just a simple little ditty,

  In her good ould Irish way,

  And I’d give the world if she could sing

  That song to me this day

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,

  Hush, now don’t you cry!

  CHAPTER 17

  Bless the four corners of this house,

  And be the lintel blest;

  And bless the hearth and bless the board

  And bless each place of rest;

  And bless the door that opens wide to strangers as to kin.

  THE MIRTHFUL LYRE

  ARTHUR GUITERMAN

  ROSEMARY KING NEEDED TO TALK to someone older and wiser, but the very person she needed was gone now. She went to the next best.

  Mary Callanan shooed her children away as soon as Rosemary arrived. “You’re to stay out of the kitchen until I tell you differently. There’s a piece of chocolate cake and glass of cold milk for those who obey and you’re not to disturb your father.” Despite all the activity in the house, Mr. Callanan was sound asleep in his easy chair with The Boston Globe sports section sheltering his face like a tent.

  Mary saw Norah in the young woman’s demeanor. She sat straight like her mother and had the same pleasant manner, but concern pooled in Rosemary’s eyes like soft rain. She’s a burden beyond the loss of her mother. I can feel it. Dear God, guide me to help as best I can.

  “Would you like a little somethin’ to go with your tea, Rosemary? There’s of course the chocolate cake, but I have some cold cuts if you’re hungry for a sandwich. Can I make you a bologna sandwich? Or are you starvin’ yourself for the weddin’ day? There isn’t a bride that doesn’t. Lookin’ your best on the most important day of your life is of utmost importance. So you’re not to feel queer about it now. What’ll it be then?”

  “To tell you the truth, Mrs. Callanan, a bologna sandwich sounds delicious.”

  “How about I fry it up with some onions, and we’ll make a hot meal of it?” Mary smiled, and opened one of the two side-by-side iceboxes required because of the size of her family. “No, thank you, Mrs. Callanan. A little mustard and lettuce would be more than appreciated.”

  Rosemary thought how different Mary Callanan looked from her own mother. Norah hadn’t been overweight but she was robust, at least until the illness took over.

  Mary, on the other hand was, as Norah used to say, “thin as a rail” and tall. From the back, she looked like a young girl, and moved like one too, as she bounced from icebox to stove to sink to the table. “I’ll have the whole business done in no time and keep you company. Isn’t it just as easy to make two sandwiches as it is the one?” Mary pleasantly reasoned.

  The Callanans were considered “lace curtain Irish” because they owned their own home. Early on, they’d lived in an apartment, and Mr. Callanan’s widowed mother offe
red, “I’ve a small amount of money your late father put aside. If you wouldn’t mind an old lady livin’ with ya, I think we’ve enough for a down payment.”

  Rosemary cleared away the dishes, and Mary Callanan poured each of them another cup. “So what is it you really wanted to talk about? Not that I don’t find your weddin’ plans or job down there at Social Services fascinatin’, but it’s apparent you’ve somethin’ more on your mind.” The kitchen door opened slightly, for about the fourth time, and then all the way to reveal three of Mary’s twelve children standing in a row. The girl in the middle said, “Ma, we’re hungry. How much longer?”

  Mary turned to Rosemary. “She’s my cheeky one.” And back to the children. “‘How much longer,’ Eileen? Until I say otherwise. Meanwhile get your little fanny outta here, and that goes for the rest of ya’s too. And close the door.”

  Rosemary pulled her chair closer and lowered her voice even though it was still just the two of them in the large, warm kitchen.

  “Mrs. Callanan, I’m a light sleeper, and a few times now, I’ve awakened to see my father standing in the doorway of our bedroom.”

  Just thinking about the stench of his drunkenness and stillness of his being put a lump in her throat. “A couple of nights ago, he went to the side of Rita’s bed, and when he bumped against it, she woke up and asked, ‘Is anything wrong Dad?’ My father said, ‘The only thing wrong is some rotten young bloke is goin’ to have you all to himself one day, and you’re mine. You hear me? Mine.’ Mrs. Callanan, he reached for Rita’s covers. But she pulled them up around her neck, and begged my father to go back to bed.”

  Mary put her hands on either side of her face, and shook her head. “God in heaven.”

  Rosemary said, “I know.” She leaned in again. “Please promise you’ll never repeat any of this, let alone what I’m about to tell you next.”

  For the first time in her life, Mary Callanan was speechless and nodded her head.

  “My father yelled, ‘Rita, you’re tellin’ me to go back to bed? What makes you think I’ve been in me bed? Isn’t it your beauty that keeps me awake at night, and your sister’s as well? But Rosemary’s already taken.’ He stumbled backwards and kept saying, “‘The bed’s cold. The bed’s cold.’” Rosemary was visibly shaken; her typically assured voice quavered. “Finally, thank God, he left.”

  Mary Callanan was angry, and her face grew redder by the minute. “You and Rita have to get out as soon as possible. Please God that your dearly departed mother can’t hear anythin’ we’re discussin’ down here from her home up there in heaven.”

  “Oh, I’m on my way, Mrs. Callanan. Before any of this happened, Tony thought it would be a good idea for me to live someplace else until we got married, which I happened to mention to Patsy Sheehan, and two days later, her Aunt Alice invited me to live with her. I just wanted to run the whole situation by you to be sure I was doing the right thing. But I’m concerned about my sister.”

  Mary Callanan crossed her slender arms over her heart with her hands resting on her shoulders and looked toward the ceiling for answers; it was her way. “Has that man no decency? I’ll stop there. He’s still your father.” She looked at Rosemary. “This is how it’s goin’ to be. Rita can live here. And won’t my Marion be happy as a clam to have her best friend under the same roof?”

  Rosemary sighed with relief, and the tears she’d been holding back fell. “Thank you. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve wracked my brain with all kinds of possibilities, and none of them seemed quite right. I even considered asking Aunt Alice if Rita could live with her too.”

  “God in heaven, Rosemary, I know Patsy’s Aunt Alice’s place, and there’s barely enough room to turn around, let alone take in the two of ya’s. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Your sister’s new home is here with us.”

  “Thank you, and don’t worry. Rita can pay her own way. She gives my father money every week.”

  “What difference is one more mouth to feed when you’ve got the twelve? Though I must admit every little bit helps. I won’t be needin’ much from her.”

  “You’re such a good person, Mrs. Callanan.”

  “‘Good person?’ No, Rosemary. I’m not a good person, not on me own I’m not. But I learned how to be from your late mother, God rest her soul. I think it’s somethin’ to do with goin’ to daily Mass, bein’ on me knees before the Almighty and seekin’ His intent for me days. Didn’t your mother get me started? And now it’s as natural as breathin’. I wouldn’t miss goin’ to Mass every mornin’ if the Pope himself showed up on me front doorstep. I’d say, ‘How’d ya do, Holy Father? I’m on me way to church. You can join me if you want to, Your Holiness or make yourself comfortable ‘til I get back.’ As God is my judge, that’s what I’d say rather than miss what feeds me soul and keeps me heart right. Norah was a saint, and that’s the God’s truth.”

  “ … if there was one thing that drew the people of South Boston together and gave the neighborhood a distinctive quality of life, it was the Catholic Church … Many people went to daily Mass in the dark hours of the morning before going to work.”

  South Boston: My Home Town

  by Thomas H. O’Connor

  Rosemary had forgotten how much Mary Callanan talked. Her mother had enjoyed telling how Mary could go on and on about anything and everything that had nothing to do with the matter at hand. “Not to say she doesn’t know how to tell a good story. It’s just aggravatin’ when you’re tryin’ to get to the bottom of things.”

  Rosemary shifted gears. “Mrs. Callanan, Patsy Sheehan has a car and she offered to help me move. May I use your telephone to give her the latest news?”

  “Now Rosemary, seein’ as you’re about to become a married woman and you’ve been lookin’ after your mother’s house as your own, wouldn’t you be grown enough to drop the Mrs. and call me Mary?”

  “I would if I could. But you’ll always be Mrs. Callanan to me, Mrs. Callanan.”

  They both smiled, and Mary cautioned, “Do the movin’ today, Rosemary. Fair warnin.’” She squeezed Rosemary’s hand. “You’re so like your dear mother with all the lookin’ after. Now follow me to the telephone.”

  Patsy was more than ready to help. “Stay where you are, Ro. I’ll be right there.”

  Rita was still at work and had no idea her head would be resting on a different pillow from now on. Rosemary and Patsy headed straight for W. T. Grant & Company.

  Patsy “Ann” Sheehan Prescott, who’d only had her driver’s license for three months, did a spot-on job of parallel parking her husband’s big black Buick right in front of the small, economical department store. The two friends went inside under the watchful eye of the store’s manager, who was excited about the obviously prosperous young women selecting Grants for their shopping needs.

  Manager Adolph “Al” Schultz still had the habit of smoothing down his recently shaved off moustache, and continued to be stunned every time his bony fingers met bare skin. Today was no exception as he primped for the smartly attired young lady shoppers, reached for his phantom mustache, buttoned his suit coat, straightened his bow tie, and adjusted his ostentatious boutonnière. This was after all, Grants in Southie, not the posh, R. H. Stearns in downtown Boston.

  However, his carefully calculated efforts to look appealing were in vain. Mr. Al Schultz was repulsively squirmy, touching this and that excessively. His thin stringy locks constantly fell forward under the weight of too much hair tonic, and he smelled strongly of mothballs, an acrid repellent not only for fabric eating creatures but for discerning humans as well.

  Rita was standing right where Rosemary knew they’d find her, behind a counter in the lingerie department where she went from being nicely surprised, “Hey, you two? What’s new?” to sudden despair and just-round-the-corner tears, when Rosemary told her about moving out.

  “But what’s going to happen to me? I can’t live with the Callanans forever.”

  Her older sister did her best to make it sound go
od. “Look on the bright side, honey. You’ll be sharing a room with Marion now.”

  “I like sharing a room with you, Ro!”

  “Okay Rita, let’s get down to business. You know my plans for moving in with Aunt Alice, and I’m not leaving you home alone with Dad.”

  Rita’s cheeks instantly flushed. I can’t believe this is happening. If only my mother was still here. Mummy, please help me.

  Patsy was well aware Mr. King wasn’t the best father in Southie but her friend’s urgent tone told her this was more than she needed to hear.

  “Hey girls, I’ll be over in the notions department. Norman’s mother asked if I’d pick up some common pins the next time I went shopping.”

  Rita pointed Patsy in the right direction and said under her breath to Rosemary, “Thank you. He scared the life out of me the other night.”

  “I know. He scared the life out of me too.” Rosemary looked at her watch. “Patsy and I are on our way to 8th Street right now, Rita. We’re going to get your things and mine out of there as fast as we can. I want everything safely in place before I tell Dad.”

  “What about the boys? Won’t they tell him?”

  “Possibly if he was home, but he won’t be until later. Meanwhile, I’ll send them to Morris’s Drug Store for a soda.”

  Patsy bounced back. “Got them!” She held up an accordion pleated card of W. T. Grant Superior Common Pins ~ One Hundred Count. “What time do you get off work, young lady?”

  “Six o’clock on the dot, madam,” Rita said with a smile despite the lump in her throat.

  “We’ll be back to pick you up, Miss.” Patsy winked at Rosemary. “Oh, and let’s go to Howard Johnson’s for fried clam dinners. Okay?”

  “Only if I pick up the check,” Rosemary answered.

  Rita said, “I can almost taste those clams and French fried potatoes now,” and led by the strong smell of mothballs, briefly looked over her shoulder then said it all by rolling her eyes.