The savvy recruiter informed him, “To be perfectly honest son, you don’t need anything other than the clothes on your back, and you can leave for boot camp first thing tomorrow if you want to. There’s already a bus scheduled. Or you can leave a week from now.”
Patrick’s stomach jumped at the haste of it all but he didn’t hesitate. “What time tomorrow, Mister?”
“You’re in the Navy now, son. You’ll want to be calling me, sir. Six a.m., will we see you then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pat went straight to the Flynns’ apartment and asked Peg Hennessey for refuge until his take off at dawn. “You’re safe here, Patrick, and welcome any time ya return.” It was just the two of them. Her daughter and son-in-law had gone to Nantasket Beach in Hull for a couple of days to enjoy the ocean and popular Paragon Amusement Park.
Peg served the exhausted, bruised teen a simple lunch of tuna sandwiches. He ate two, along with bread and butter pickles, tomato soup—he had two bowls full—several glasses of milk, and a big bowl of raisin, nutmeg, molasses and cinnamon-laced Indian pudding with whipped cream for dessert.
She taught Patrick how to play solitaire and encouraged him to take a nap in her son-in-law’s soft chair. “It’ll do you good, and here.” She pushed a dog-eared burgundy leather hassock in his direction. “Put your feet up. It’ll be more relaxin’ that way.”
That night Peg Hennesey served Patrick huge portions of beef stew, corn muffins, and red Jell-O filled with fruit cocktail. She tucked him in on their sofa for the night. God love him. Then she began watching for his brute of a father to arrive home, peeking out the apartment windows, “until God knows how late,” as she later told her daughter.
As was John Joseph’s habit when entering the three-decker apartment house “durin’ the wee hours,” he came in through the common back door, into the shared hallway crowded with a baby carriage, scooter, two pairs of roller skates, a snow shovel, plunger, mop, bucket, broom, and box of redeemable bottles. Peg Hennessey was waiting for him.
“Good evenin’, Mr. King,” she said at the top of her voice with all the courage of someone who knows they have the upper hand. “May I have a moment of your time, please?”
John Joseph was inebriated, but not so much that he didn’t catch the seriousness of her request. “And what can I do this fine evenin’ for a good lookin’ woman such as yourself?”
“You can begin by savin’ that blarney for those who’d believe it.” She folded her arms and inclined her head toward the stairway. “When you go up, Mr. King, you’ll find Patrick’s gone.”
The boy’s father frowned. “What do you mean, gone?”
“He’s joined the U.S. Navy, and if you interfere, I’ll call the police and tell them exactly how you’ve been treatin’ those children—let alone the carnage I heard comin’ from your apartment last night.”
She greatly regretted not going up, but home alone, there was no back up, and fear of “physical harm or permanent injury from that raging drunk demon” held her back.
“Leave him be. And a word to the wise, I’m also toyin’ with the idea of tellin’ Father Delaney about the whole sordid mess, but your lack of interferin’ with Patrick’s plans could persuade me otherwise.”
John Joseph started to address the older woman by her first name but stopped himself. “Peg, ah, Mrs. Hennessey, sure and you’ll agree there’s nothin’ wrong with puttin’ them in their place.” John Joseph walked unsteadily toward her. “And what makes you think I’d go chasin’ after that snivelin’ ingrate? Haven’t I put up with Mr. Patty Cake’s mopin’ about since his mother’s death?”
The Aran Isles of Ireland are home to a very distinctive type of sweater. Made from natural, cream-colored wool and hand-knit into combined patterns of knots, ropes, braids, and basket weaves—each island family had their own unique design. In the event a fisherman was lost at sea, once found, he could easily be identified by his “Aran sweater” pattern.
“Don’t come one step closer, John King.” Peg shook her index finger. “And from now on you’ll not lay a hand on those that’s left. If I see one hair out of place on either Timmy or Tommy’s heads, it’s out the door and into the hoosegow you’ll go.” Peg pulled her bulky, hand-knit Aran sweater closer around her. “Now go get some sleep so’s you can be a better man tomorrow and stop disgracin’ your family. Go on now!”
Mr. and Mrs. Williamson
Maid of Honor, Rita King.
John Joseph was woozy but managed to get upstairs, muttering all the way. “Wait and see. You’ll all be sorry. You just wait.”
Within months, Rosemary and Tony married at Gate of Heaven Church where Aunt Alice stood in for the bride’s mother but didn’t take her place in the first seat of the first pew on the left. She sat directly next to the open space where Rosemary had laid a nosegay of white roses in memory of Norah.
Patsy happily arranged the flowers for Rosemary’s wedding although her mother-in-law had discouraged her from doing so. “Ann, dear, that kind of occupation is behind you now. Does South Boston have a good floral shop, or shall I recommend one here in town?”
With the older boys away at war, well, two of them anyway, only Rosemary and Tony knew where Joe really was, Patsy Sheehan Prescott’s father gladly stepped in and walked Rosemary down the aisle.
Rita was her sister’s maid of honor, and Kay was a bridesmaid along with Patsy.
Don Campbell stood in as best man, and Tony requested that John Michael and Patrick be added as groomsmen in absentia.
Tony’s parents were deceased, so he asked Don if he thought his would be willing to take their place. “If it wasn’t for your family’s Christmas party, I wouldn’t have met Rosemary.”
Mrs. Campbell told her friends, “You’ll never guess what this coming Saturday holds for us! An Irish wedding in South Boston, and we’re to be honorary parents for the groom. Isn’t that positively delightful?”
Rosemary felt certain her father wouldn’t allow Timmy and Tommy to attend and was thrilled when she saw both boys immaculately dressed and sitting in the second row, one on either side of Peg Hennessey.
The day before the wedding, Peg informed John Joseph that Timothy and Thomas would be escorting her to the church and reception. “I’m here to see if their clothes need washin’ and ironin’.”
He blocked the doorway. “They’re not goin’.”
Peg pushed past him. “Don’t even think of stoppin’ me. I believe you’re aware of the waitin’ consequences, Mr. King.”
The wedding reception took place at Patsy’s parents’ large, two-story home on Farragut Road, where white paper honeycomb bells swayed on the porch and decorated the rooms inside. Delicate spring green ferns crowned each bell-top bow, and satin ribbons streamed out from the big one over the dining room table, creating a grand bridal canopy.
Although it looked like April showers, there was no rain in sight so people spilled out onto the front porch and enjoyed the ocean view, with one of the guests saying as he raised his glass to the sea, “It doesn’t get much better than this. Here’s to love, friends, food, and drink. Sláinte! To your health!”
Three Callanan brothers were put in charge of the record player. Big band tunes laced the air with popular tunes while Kate Smith, Bing Crosby, and Frank Sinatra sang of romance. But most often, at the urging of countless adults, the boys chose Irish tenors and uplifting reels. People loved singing along and many danced, but the majority of guests simply tapped their feet to the pleasingly familiar tunes.
This was the last time they would see Ensign James Frances Sheehan, who fought valiantly in the Pacific and was killed aboard an aircraft carrier when a Japanese Kamikaze pilot crashed into the deck and took sixty American lives with him.
James Sheehan kissed the bride’s hand and shook Tony’s. “You’ve got me to thank for this, Williamson.”
“And I will. Thank you, Mr. Sheehan, for bringing the prettiest girl in Boston to that Christmas party in Milton. I am
forever in your debt.”
“I’ll remember that, Williamson.” James patted Tony on the shoulder. There were no hard feelings.
Rosemary and Tony had originally planned on having their reception at a local hall for hire, but Patsy’s father wouldn’t hear of it. “Why Rosy, you’re like one of our own. It’ll be at the house.”
Rosemary had been saving every penny she could to avoid what was known in Southie as a “Protestant reception,” with cake, fruit punch, and pastel-candy covered almonds. But Tony, prudent beyond anyone else she’d ever known, said, “Ro, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with simple fare.”
“Tony Williamson, what are you thinking? We have enough money for a nice buffet and limited alcohol. Enough to be hospitable, but not too much. I don’t want anything to ruin our day.”
The young couple profusely thanked Mr. and Mrs. Sheehan for offering the use of their home, and Mr. Sheehan said, “Use of our home? What are you talking about? We’re doin’ the whole shebang from beginnin’ to end.”
Rosemary politely proposed a cake and punch reception out of consideration for the Sheehan’s pocketbook, and Patsy’s mother, who had the reputation of “puttin’ on a good spread,” was horrified. “Over my dead body you two are havin’ a Protestant reception. Don’t worry about the money, honey. We get everythin’ wholesale cause of the store and all. You’re havin’ a proper affair, and that’s all there is to it.” Mrs. Sheehan smiled and brushed her hands back and forth. “All there is to it, beautiful girl.”
“It” was a lavish buffet meal of cold meats—roast beef, ham, and turkey—a variety of breads, rolls, butter, assorted condiments, several relish trays of radishes, pickles, olives, celery and tiny onions, a large serving bowl of Harvard beets, and even larger hot dishes of macaroni and cheese, Boston baked beans, scalloped potatoes, and a cavalcade of jewel-colored Jell-O salads in an array of shapes, sizes, and flavors.
Mrs. Flanagan, whose family lived on the top floor of the three-decker that Rosemary called home until recently, made arrangements with Mrs. Sheehan to provide her famous lobster salad. “Reserved for the special occasion only, Mrs. Sheehan, and now it’s here.”
The couple insisted on paying for their three-tier, frosting roses-laden wedding cake—from Helen’s Bakery, of course—and it was, as the bride’s sisters said several times over, “really gorgeous, Ro.”
There was plenty of liquor, thanks to Mr. Sheehan’s brother’s Sunday bootleg business. “What the hell. I make enough money as it is. Everything’s on the house.” But no one had too much, and the entire afternoon went smoothly.
Mr. and Mrs. Williamson honeymooned for one night at Boston’s Parker House Hotel, which was the first time Rosemary had slept any place other than her parents’ home or Aunt Alice’s apartment. The bride and groom arrived in their wedding attire, and Rosemary blushed when the desk clerk said to Tony as he signed the register, “And this I assume is Mrs. Williamson.”
The next day, the newlyweds returned to Southie where their personal belongings were piled high in Aunt Alice’s apartment. They packed it all in a second-hand car Tony bought from “a fella at BC who wanted to get rid of it before he went overseas.”
The new Mister and Missus drove straight to New York City, where Tony began to fulfill his Naval commission and Rosemary went to college full time while working part time for Lord & Taylor. She had applied for the advertised sales position in lady’s pocketbooks and accessories but the personnel director offered her a better paying job. “We have an immediate opening for a fashion model. Interested?”
It was two weeks after Tony and Rosemary left for New York that the Kings apartment seemed too quiet. So Marie Flynn went upstairs with one of her seed cakes as an excuse to see if all was going well. Never could she have expected to find what she did. The curious landlady soon learned Timmy and Tommy had been living all alone for more than a week.
John Joseph had left them without food or money, but Timmy tried to keep up a good front. “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Flynn, really. I’m sure our father will be back soon. I think maybe he had a job somewhere’s else for a while.”
“Have you checked his closet, Timmy? Are his clothes still there?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Flynn.”
“Well, let’s go see then.” The concerned landlady opened the bedroom closet door to find it completely empty except for a few wire hangers haphazardly strewn on the floor.
Timmy panicked. “Ahm, I didn’t know. Ahm, Mrs. Flynn, you don’t have to worry. He’ll be back. Hey, is that cake for us?” As soon as she handed the seed cake to Timmy, he pulled the waxed paper off and called, “Tommy, come in Mum and Dad’s room!” Timmy broke off a piece and with a full mouth said, “Thanks, Mrs. Flynn.”
Tommy came running from the kitchen where he’d been desperately looking for something to eat. He had found a container under the sink of what he thought was flour, and he ate some.
“What in the world’s all over your mouth, Tommy King?” Marie Flynn asked.
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Flynn, but it tastes awful.” He complained, “I don’t feel so good,” and Timmy handed him a hunk of the cake, which Tommy pushed into his mouth without taking a bite.
“Show me where you were, Thomas,” Marie demanded and seconds later identified the white substance as laundry starch, rushed both boys downstairs, and called Mr. McDonough at the pharmacy, who told her straightaway what to do.
“Give the sorry bugger castor oil, and make him drink lots of water. He’ll be fine.”
Her next call went to Social Services.
Eleven-year-old Timothy Matthew King and nine-year-old Thomas Augustine King were taken to The Home for Destitute Catholic Children, where they got three meals a day, went to school, said their prayers, and slept peacefully every night in a dormitory with twenty-eight other orphan boys.
The Home for Destitute Catholic Children
Later, the brothers were transferred to The Home for Little Wanderers, where they got more of the same until Mary Callanan’s childless relatives, Loretta and Doyle Garvey, adopted the boys, presumably to fill the void in their lives for a family.
In truth, the penny-pinching couple thought this would be a good opportunity to get help with their thriving plumbing business in exchange for the orphans learning a trade and having a roof over their heads. But they’d overlooked the fact that Timmy and Tommy were still children in need of clothing, food, school supplies, and more, and the Garveys resented it. They barely took care of the two orphans.
All the while, Loretta Garvey rode around town in a shiny Cadillac and quite often wore a mink stole, while the only shoes each boy had was a pair of canvas sneakers, even in the dead of winter.
There was no love lost between the four, and after graduating from high school, each boy quickly moved out.
Timothy found work in a meat market, where he learned the butcher trade, and spent most of his spare time at a local gym, where an impressed boxing coach observed his natural gift for pugilism. “You’ve got the making of a champ, pal. A real, bone fide champ!” The coach offered to train him free of charge in exchange for a career-long commitment. “Boston Garden here we come!” Lightweight boxer Timothy A. King won all sixteen of his professional bouts.
Timothy A. King
“The Quincy Chiller, knocks ’em out cold, every time.”
THE QUINCY PATRIOT LEDGER
Tommy joined the Navy, where he learned about small business from a senior officer who enjoyed the personable young enlisted man’s skill at chess and took him under his wing. In time, Tommy owned his own plumbing business and a couple of successful Laundromats.
John Joseph King faded into the woodwork of men who don’t keep their obligations and get away with it. The wry, middle-aged widower and father of nine now lived agreeably alone in a small, upstairs apartment in Southie’s Thomas Park neighborhood. He continued his job as a steel worker, spent free time at the pub, and in his own despicable words, “got on with the ladie
s.”
He had in his possession almost every photograph ever taken of the King children, as well as photos of himself and Norah, which he refused to relinquish, even when Mary Callanan discovered where he was living and went to him on behalf of Rita and her siblings.
“Would these be what you’re lookin’ for?” John Joseph held up Rosemary and Kay’s high school senior portraits in his strong but shaky hands, giving Mary a glimmer of hope that quickly faded when he folded one of the photos in half vertically and despite her gasps did the same to the other, marring the beauty of his daughter’s faces. “They take up less room this way,” he said, slyly slipping the tinted matte 8×10s into a nearby drawer.
“What good are the photographs to you, John?” Mary Callanan plaintively asked.
“It’s the only thing I’ve got left that they want, and it’s how I’m gettin’ the last goddam word.”
“Fine then, John King. The Almighty has ways of dealin’ with your kind. I’ve nothin’ more to say.”
“Right this way then, Mrs. Callanan.” He motioned with a long sweeping gesture toward the door that Mary insisted remain open during their conversation. As she rushed down the steep, narrow wooden stairway, no handrail on either side, her scampering footsteps had the sound of hard rain on a windowpane. Although her back was to him, John Joseph got what he wanted, what he always juggled for, schemed for, fought for, come hell or high water … the last word.
“And never darken my door again.”
PART II
CHAPTER 19
After the ball is over, After the break of morn –
After the dancers’ leaving; After the stars are gone;
The Red Coat Page 21