Mr. Schultz lurked close by and pretended to be straightening some flimsy merchandise as he took each pastel colored piece, shook it out and laid it back in place just so, sometimes with a pat, pat. The fact that it was ladies’ panties didn’t occur to the myopic manager, and his fidgety fingering of the delicate under-things made “Al” Schultz look absolutely obscene to the parochial-school-trained young ladies.
Rita came out from behind the counter and did her own pretending as she showed Rosemary and Patsy a new selection of quilted robes. “This color is very popular.” She pointed it out to Patsy. “It’s called turquoise. Have you ever heard such a word? Turquoise?”
“Why no, I haven’t.” Patsy spoke louder for Mr. Schultz’s benefit, should he take issue with Rita for personal visitors. “It’s very pretty, Miss, but I’d prefer it in that yummy yellow, please.”
Rita removed a size small from the rack, and whispered, “Do you really want to buy this, Patsy?”
“Of course,” she whispered back. “We’re not going to give your manager the satisfaction of finding something wrong. What a creep.”
Rita wrapped the robe in standard tissue and placed it in a paper bag. “That will be eight dollars and ninety-five cents, please, madam.”
Miss Rita Margaret King wistfully watched newly married Patsy and Rosemary, her could she get any prettier sister, who was soon to be wed, rush to the other side of the store. The rich sheen of Patsy’s “Ann’s” black curly lamb jacket, and happy hue of Rosemary’s red coat bobbed in and out of each department along the way until they reached the men’s, where both bought a package of Best Quality Gentleman’s Handkerchiefs before dashing to the car. If only I had a sweetheart of my own.
CHAPTER 18
I think my father is like the Holy Trinity with three people in him,
the one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the
stories and the prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing
and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die.
ANGELA’S ASHES
FRANK MCCOURT
IT WAS PATSY AND ROSEMARY’S third trip downstairs when Peg Hennessey opened her apartment door and stood there drying her wet hands on a dishtowel just taken from over her shoulder.
“So what goes on here, girlies? You’ve been movin’ stuff out like the house is on fire.”
Rosemary didn’t want to explain, nor take the time to talk, but so loved Mrs. Hennessey for all the kindnesses she’d shown to their family through the years. Like when she’d say they had too much of this or that food and asked wouldn’t the Kings take it off their hands, and the great interest she took in the children’s special occasions, celebrating each one with a small gift, let alone how she’d sat sentry in the entry hall for days when Norah was waked, respectfully directing visitors upstairs.
“Truthfully, Mrs. Hennessey,” Rosemary confided, knowing this was a coup for the older lady who loved to be in the know, “Rita and I are moving someplace else. I’ll be boarding with Patsy Sheehan’s Aunt Alice, and Rita is going to live with the Callanan family. My father has no idea this is taking place so please don’t tell him. Please. I really can’t say any more, Mrs. Hennessey.”
The old woman left her doorway and said to Patsy, “It’s not my intent to be rude, darlin’, but I’ve somethin’ private to discuss with your friend.”
“Oh, please don’t think twice about it, Mrs. Hennessey. I was on my way to the car anyway.” Patsy reached for Rosemary’s bundle. “Give it to me, Ro. I can manage.”
Peg Hennessey was barely audible. “There’s no need to explain a thing. For isn’t me bedroom right below yours and Rita’s, and haven’t I heard him stumblin’ to and fro at all hours, though not beyond the doorway ’til the other night but with a fast turnaround, thank God. Are you girls all right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hennessey. Nothing happened.” Rosemary felt a knot in her stomach.
“Rosemary, it’s the liquor that makes your father less than the good man God Almighty made him to be. Now you must remember that. It’s the liquor talkin’, beatin’, cursin’, not your father in his natural state. He loves you girls. By leavin’ home you’re avoidin’ all kinds of trouble and savin’ him when he’s sober, from a life of regrettin’ ever layin’ a hand on either one of ya’s.”
Rosemary had no desire to clarify whether Peg Hennessey was talking about violence or the absolute unmentionable. She was, in her own way, taking over where her late mother left off. Norah had been not only loving parent, but also constant guardian of her three daughters’ virtue, running interference between her husband, when he’d been drinking, and the girls’ budding beauty. The drunkenness was hard enough, but John Joseph’s subsequent lechery was worse, and he’d hideously sing away, “My wild Irish rose, the dearest flow’r that grows. And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish rose.”
Norah King’s unrelenting defense indubitably meant she’d suffer a physical blow, but in the end, victory was hers. John Joseph never achieved his drunken objective. Not once.
“Get out while the gettin’s good, Rosemary King, and may God bless your way, and Rita’s too. I’ll keep an eye out for the boys.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hennessey.”
Rosemary gave her favorite neighbor lady a quick hug and ran up the stairs again.
On the night of November 28, 1942, Boston’s Cocoanut Grove Nightclub exploded into flames, in what remains one of the deadliest fires in U.S. history. A total of 492 people were killed and hundreds more were injured. The popular club was filled to overflowing capacity with 1,000 plus customers, wait staff, band and other entertainers. It was a tragedy that shocked the nation and for a time, replaced World War II news headlines. The devasting blaze led to a reform of fire codes and safety standards across the country, prompted a seminal study of grief and led to innovative medical treatments for burn victims. The club’s owner, Barney Welansky was eventually found guilty of involuntary manslaughter.
Norah’s crucifix rested beneath three layers of Rosemary’s clothing—slip, blouse, and wool suit jacket—but she could still feel its comforting silhouette against her fingertips. It’s you, Mum, isn’t it? You and the Sacred Heart of Jesus are watching over us. And it was you last Saturday too. Wasn’t it, Mum? Rosemary shuddered at the thought of what had taken place less than a week ago. Tony and I could have been burned or trampled to death.
The happy couple had gone to the Boston College versus Holy Cross football game—a favorite and fierce rivalry—and had planned to join friends afterward at the wildly popular Cocoanut Grove nightclub on Piedmont Street in the theater district, but never made it. Whatever possessed me to agree when Tony said, “Maybe we’d better call it a night. There’s nothing to celebrate.” Even if the Eagles did lose the game, we still could have enjoyed dinner and dancing. Rosemary sighed aloud. “I miss you, Mum.” She crossed the threshold into the apartment.
Patsy said, “Ro, we don’t have anything to carry all this stuff in.” Rosemary ran and got pillowcases from the hall closet. “Hurry. We can use these.”
This wasn’t easy, her mother having been gone only weeks, leaving her father’s house without his knowledge or blessing, and taking her younger sister with her. God in heaven, what happened to our family?
Rosemary longingly recalled her blissful early childhood when the whole family would sit in the kitchen listening to John Joseph play his fiddle, dance, and sing along too. She missed the times when her parents would gather all their children in the living room on weeknights to say the Rosary, and especially the final bedtime tuck-in when John Joseph would delay their night’s rest with just one more story and Norah would chide with a dimpled smile, “And won’t they all be class dunce for lack of sleep? You’ve got to say goodnight now, Mr. King.” What happened to our happy family?
Rosemary sat down at the kitchen table for the last time to write her father a letter. Patsy could see her from the hallway,
where she was ready to take the last armload of items down to her car. “Make it short and sweet, Ro. It’ll go over better that way.”
Dear Dad,
When you read this, I will have moved to Patsy’s Aunt Alice’s apartment. As you know, my wedding date is only a month away now and Tony thinks it best if I live someplace else until then. Dad, I don’t want to be disrespectful in the least but your drinking and yelling and the threat that you’ll strike one of us again has become more than I can bear. I’m a wreck, and I don’t want to begin my new life, jangled let alone walk down the aisle that way.
Rita is going too. She’ll be living with the Callanan family from now on. I don’t want to put to paper the reason for this, but please don’t go after her, or I’ll tell my boss at Social Services why I needed to get Rita away from you.
Pat knows how to cook, and I think he’ll do a good job. But you and the little boys will have to chip in and help. I’m sorry Rita and I had to leave home like this. It’s for the best.
Your daughter,
Rosemary
When the time came, her omission of love didn’t go unnoticed.
The two determined young women moved everything to the Buick in record time and were about three streets away when Rosemary screamed, “Stop the car! Oh, Patsy, you’re never going to believe this? I left my red coat in the living room. You and I ran up and down those stairs so fast I never got cold enough to miss it. We have to go back. I’m so sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble at all. What’s a U-turn between friends?”
“An illegal act, a traffic ticket, better safe than sorry.”
“Okay.” But Patsy made the U-turn anyway. “A small price to pay. You love that coat.”
There was an air of relief and caution as they pulled up in front of the three-decker. “Hurry Ro. You don’t want to run into your father.”
But she did.
“You’re goin’ to live with Patsy Sheehan’s aunt, and I’m goin’ into the goddam priesthood. Do you honestly think I’m fallin’ for that line? You’re goin’ off with the Dago, aren’t you? It’s a good thing your mother’s not alive to see her ‘pure as the new fallen snow’ Rosemary livin’ in such a way. Aunt Alice!”
“I’d never do a thing like that, Dad. I just can’t live here anymore.” Rosemary could feel her heart beating faster and faster. Please God don’t let him come after me. “And Patsy’s Aunt Alice says she could use the company.”
“And don’t think I don’t know your possessions have already left this house. For didn’t one of the neighbors ask why you were movin’ out and I might add it was mortifyin’ to be told me own business by that snoop of a woman, Mrs. Delaney, who doesn’t know her arse from the top of her head but manages to know all the goins on of the people around her.”
Downstairs, Peg Hennessey was well aware of father and daughter in the apartment at the same time. Old lady or not, I’ll fly up those flights should I hear even one shouted word or misplaced footstep.
“Let me leave in peace, will you please, Dad?” Rosemary pleaded.
“‘Let me leave in peace, will you please, Dad?’” John Joseph sing-sang in the mocking high-pitched tone she knew only too well. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Who do you think you are?” might as well be tattooed into the forehead of certain old Irish Catholics, they ask it so much. “Too big for your britches,” too.
Object Lessons by Anna Quindlen
Rosemary walked toward the living room, and John Joseph followed after her. When she reached for the red coat, which was laying over the back of the sofa, her father lunged and grabbed it first. “You wouldn’t be needin’ this, now, would you? Your fancy I-talian college boy can buy you a new coat. Cheap at twice the price if he’s to get a beauty like you for himself.” John Joseph pulled a jackknife from his pants pocket and flipped it open with the aid of his adroit right thumb. “Maybe we could cut it up into little pieces for aren’t you too proud for your own good when this coat’s on your back?”
“My mother gave me that coat. Don’t do it. Please don’t.” Rosemary grabbed for the garment that, to her, represented all that was good and generous and prosperous. “Dad, please don’t.”
Her father, who smelled of ale and cigarettes, held the coat up high—almost in effigy. “God only knows how much your late mother paid for the goddam thing.”
He moved quickly and waved her much-loved garment like a toreador. “You’re not gettin’ it unless you apologize for bein’ so goddam uppity. Say it. ‘Dad, I’m sorry for bein’ so uppity, especially when I’m wearin’ the red coat.’ Say it, and the coat goes with ya. Hold back and I’ll cut it in shreds before your eyes.”
Rosemary sat down in a nearby chair. “You really want me to say that, Dad?”
“You bet your life I do, and you’ll do it standin’ up when you talk to me, or there’s no deal.”
The lithe young woman stood, nervously brushed her golden hair back, paused and said, “Dad, please forgive me if I’ve ever offended you when I’m wearing that coat. It wasn’t my intent.”
John Joseph taunted her and pushed the tip of the knife through a buttonhole. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’ll be needin’ the uppity part if you’re to take this coat away in the one piece.”
“Dad, please forgive me for being uppity when I’m wearing the red coat.”
“That’s more like it. Here’s your costly rag, Miss High and Mighty.” He threw the red coat across the room.
Rosemary ran to catch it. He laughed and tossed the pocketknife in the air a few times while she hurriedly put the coat on and rushed to the front door.
John Joseph followed, and his laughter got louder.
Rosemary’s legs felt like they would buckle right out from beneath her as she turned around and stared her father straight in the eye. “I never want to see you again in my life.” She walked out the door and firmly closed it behind her.
Peg Hennessey pulled the lace curtain slightly back from the bowed front window in her daughter and son-in-law’s living room and watched as Rosemary swiftly got into Patsy’s car. She’ll do fine.
That night when Rita entered the Callanans’ orderly, noisy, children-in-every-room home, Mary welcomed her with open arms. “If it isn’t me lucky charm? Rita King, your livin’ in this house makes the number of offspring a full baker’s dozen now. Sure and you’re a sign of more good things to come.”
Mary gave the bewildered teen a hearty hug. “Have you had your supper yet? We’ve still a couple of fishcakes and some beans, which is nothin’ short of a miracle seein’ there’s seldom a crumb left after this bunch sits down.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Callanan. I’ve already eaten.”
Patsy and Rosemary overheard the conversation as they carried Rita’s possessions inside. “Mrs. Callanan, we stopped at Howard Johnson’s for clams. Ro’s treat,” Patsy said and playfully pinched her friend.
Just then little girls’ voices rang out from upstairs. “Say the magic words, Marion, and we’ll let you pass.”
Eileen, Sheila, and Sheila’s twin, Patricia, who the Callanans nicknamed Pansy because there were so many Patricia’s in Southie, were blocking Marion’s way.
“Pretty please,” Marion sang, and the trio giggled as they let go of each other’s hands and she ran past them.
“Rita! You’re finally here! Can you believe it? We’re going to be roommates now. Well, you and me and two of my sisters.”
Norah’s youngest daughter did her best to appear cheerful, her dimpled smile a ready cover as she echoed back, “Can you believe it, Mar?” Can you believe that your best friend is an orphan now?
Someone was whistling a muffled “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” from the other side of the cellar door. When it burst open, a blonde, blue-eyed preteen boy appeared. He stopped mid-tune and addressed the newest member of the household. “Hey, Rita, Ma says ya gonna live here now.” Please God, when I’m old enough to have a girlfriend, I want her to look
just like that. “Glad to have ya!”
“Thanks, Don. I’m glad to be here.” No, I’m not. I want to go home. But I can’t go home. Ever.
Marion walked over to her mother. “Ma, you’re terrific.”
“Oh, I think Rita King’s the terrific one, seein’ she’s brave enough to sleep in the same room with you, Jean and Eileen.” Poor girl, havin’ to leave her home on account of …God help me, there’ll be no mention in thought or speech. “And I trust everythin’s in order up there, Marion Louise?”
“Yes, Ma. And I changed the sheets like you asked me to.”
Mary put one arm around her daughter. “Good girl.” She reached out to Rita with the other. “And now Miss Rita King, you’re one of my girls too.”
Much later that same night, John Joseph returned from the pub drunker than usual. He pulled Pat, Timmy, and Tommy out of bed, and beat all three boys, with Pat getting the worst of it. After everything calmed down and their father turned in, the three brothers tiptoed to the kitchen and made a snack of toast and milk.
Tommy said, “Does it hurt, Pat?”
His brother didn’t say a thing.
Timmy said, “Do you want me to get a facecloth and put cold water on it?”
Pat remained silent, kept his head down, and didn’t even glance at his brothers. Then Tommy got up from the table, being careful not to scrape his chair, leaned his head on top of Pat’s and said, “I’m sorry Dad did this to you.”
Patrick sniffled and wiped tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “I’ll be all right.”
The next morning as John Joseph was “sleeping it off,” fifteen-and-a-half-year old Patrick Henry King shyly walked into the Naval Recruiting Office with a swollen-shut black eye, got the necessary papers for enlistment, left and came back an hour later with the forms filled out, his father’s signature looking very much like his own and his supposed birthdate, extremely doubtful. Mercifully no questions were asked as Pat joined the ranks of countless other young boys from across the nation who preferred the fields and seas of war to what was going on at home.
The Red Coat Page 20