The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Many a heart is aching, If you could read them all;

  Many the hopes that have vanished After the ball.

  “AFTER THE BALL”

  CHARLES K. HARRIS

  CORDELIA PARKER WAS UNWED.

  Norman Prescott, the boy she thought she would marry, much to his family’s bewilderment and Cordelia’s devastation, wed an Irish girl from South Boston. Trying to make the best of what she considered a very unfortunate situation, his mother described Patricia “Ann” Sheehan to friends and family as “particularly pretty, polite, bright and petite, but from South Boston nonetheless.”

  Two and a half years later, Cordelia continued to ruminate over the series of events she truly believed took Norman away from her that Christmas season two years earlier.

  From the moment of introduction, Norman Prescott kept a close eye on Patricia Sheehan, despite Cordelia’s cunning attempts to distract him. “Oh, there’s Beatrice and Paul. Do let’s say hello,” she told Norman, and “Be a good sport and take me outside on the terrace for a sec. It’s so stuffy in here.” Later that night, when she spied the way Patricia seemed to be looking for someone and stopped searching when Norman came into view, Cordelia cannily requested, “Would you mind very much if we called it an evening, Norman?” Not wanting to seem a wet blanket, she cheerfully said, “What a fabulous Christmas party,” as she leaned on his shoulder and then sighed. “Mmmm, I’m delightfully exhausted.”

  But just as they were about to leave, Cordelia said, “Let me powder my nose. I’ll only be a minute.” That’s when Norman dashed off to find that cute little number again, politely declining other guests’ attempts to connect with him along the way.

  “Norman, haven’t seen you since—”

  “Yes, it has been a while.” He extended his hand for a quick shake. “Merry Christmas.” Norman kept moving, and other friendly inquiries came as he paced his steps to the tune of “Deck the Halls,” which someone had turned up, once again, to almost full volume on the phonograph. Fa, la, la, la, la … The laughter and conversation reached an even greater level of merriment.

  From time to time Mrs. Campbell serenely entered the fray and amiably turned down the volume. But it never lasted very long.

  “Hey Norman, how are you pal?”

  “Terrific. And you’re looking well.” His feet never stopped. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Norman Prescott, international relations field of interest, you’re just the fellow to settle our difference of opinion about the unrest in Europe.”

  He was growing impatient, but remained jovial, and then he spotted Patsy and swiftly patted one of the debaters on the shoulder. “It’s Christmas, no difference of opinion allowed.”

  ’Tis the season to be jolly.

  Patsy pretended not to notice Norman approaching and coyly stood on tiptoe with one foot poised behind her while reaching to put an ornament back in place that had fallen off the Christmas tree.

  The music changed. Hark! The herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King…

  “Patricia.” Norman lightly tapped her on the shoulder. “May I help you with that?”

  The dainty, dark-haired beauty felt butterflies in her stomach at the nearness of him. Keep calm. Keep calm. “No, thank you, I’ve got it.” Patricia turned about-face.

  Joyful, all ye nations rise; join the triumph of the skies.

  “Oh, it’s you again.” She gave the tall Brahmin a shy smile. “Norman, right?” He’s even better looking than I remember, and heaven forgive me, I bet he kisses well. At that thought, her cheeks lightly flushed. Patsy Sheehan, what in the world are you thinking? Stop!

  Patricia wasn’t the only one who felt pleasingly on edge. Norman seemed uncertain of his name. “Why yes, yes, Norman … Norman Prescott.”

  “Hmm, are you positive?” She smiled, and although a bit embarrassed, so did he.

  Hark! The herald angels sing.

  “I’m sorry, Patricia, I should have begun by introducing myself again. Surely you’ve met dozens of people tonight.”

  She observed his tall, sandy-haired, brown-eyed good looks for the second time that night and noted his charcoal jacket had patches on the elbows, which she considered very academic looking. The length of his dark slacks seemed to go on forever, and a hunter-green vest, white dress shirt and simple striped tie, which actually belonged to his father, completed the conservative, old money appearance.

  “Yes, so many names to remember, but I believe our introduction ended with an interrupted invitation, something about my brother, Rosemary, and me joining you on the Common for ice skating tomorrow?”

  Joy to the world, the Lord is come.

  “Coincidentally, that’s why I’m here. It will be great fun. There’ll be about fourteen of us meeting at the Frog Pond.” He was surprised to hear himself speaking so fast. “My family lives close by, and we’re going to my house afterward for a casual holiday buffet, including our Dutch housekeeper’s famous hot chocolate.” Norman stopped talking for a minute. “Patricia, I really want to see you again, and I’m doing a terrible job of trying not to appear too eager.”

  Let every heart prepare Him room.

  Patsy glanced to the side before folding her hands and looking up at the tall, gentleman. “What time, Norman?” Dreamboat.

  “One thirty, Patricia.”

  And heaven and nature sing, and heaven and nature sing.

  When Cordelia returned to the entry, Norman was nowhere to be seen. She assumed he was saying his last goodbyes and decided to retrieve her coat on her own to save time. Mr. Campbell was ready to help and asked, as he reached in the guest closet, “The long velvet, right, Cappy?”

  Cordelia approached the lively gathering in the parlor only to find Norman and Patricia standing side by side, laughing at the antics of two freshmen who were circling the room waving mistletoe and looking for coed kisses while at the same time being summoned by other young men who wanted to get in on the act. “Hey fellas, got any to spare?”

  Norman looked at Patsy and teasingly began to raise his hand as if in preparation to call upon the revelers himself.

  “Norman Prescott, do that and tomorrow you’ll ice skate without my company.”

  Cordelia suddenly stood before them, her elegant needlepoint evening bag held in both hands and royal-navy velvet coat over her shoulders, where Mr. Campbell had placed it.

  “Oh, Cappy, there you are,” Norman said. “I believe you two ladies met earlier this evening.”

  “Yes,” the two young women answered simultaneously, and they extended their hands for a light ladylike handshake that ended with Patricia excusing herself. “Please forgive me for rushing off, but I really need to get back to my friends. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”

  Norman turned and said, “Your call, Cappy.”

  Cordelia slipped her gloved hand into the crook of Norman’s arm. “I’m afraid we’ve already planned to make our exit. Thank you just the same, Patricia, isn’t it?” Not waiting for a reply she cordially added, “Another time, maybe,” and gently tugged Norman. “Shall we go?”

  Bing Crosby’s crooning rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” saw them out the door, and it seemed everyone at the party was singing along. They continued to hear its sweet refrain all the way to the car.

  Six months later, at Patricia and Norman’s June wedding reception in his parents’ Beacon Hill home, days before he left for active duty in the U.S. Marines, Cordelia’s family were preferred guests. Thus, they were seated at one of the tables closest to the bride and groom, where, with great embarrassment, Cordelia listened to her father’s soft-spoken advice. “Be pleasantly congratulatory and no one will be the wiser. But if you insist on going around with that long face, Cappy, I’m afraid you’ll look the fool.”

  Cordelia obligingly rose to the occasion and warmly waved to the happy couple. She was, after all, her parents’ daughter and brought up to keep personal feelings “close to the vest,” as her father str
ictly stated. Her mother very firmly insisted, “There’s no dignity in airing one’s emotions or private business.”

  That wedding was two years ago, and even after all this time, Cordelia still believed the absence of the red coat sealed her spinster plight. Just last Sunday, as she and her closest friend were serving coffee and donuts at the U.S.O. in downtown Boston, Cordelia visited her heartbreak again.

  “Oh, Abby, if only I’d had an opportunity to wear my lovely red coat once more in Norman’s presence, I’m certain the enchantment of that long ago evening walk home would have returned. You can’t imagine what it meant to have his arm around my shoulders.” She broke away and asked the Army private standing before her, “Cream and sugar, soldier?” As he walked off with a cup of steaming black coffee and two donuts, Cordelia didn’t miss a beat of her previous conversation. “And I still don’t understand why Mother was so cavalier about giving my lovely coat to that Irish scrubwoman.”

  Abigail Adams Dubois Remington discreetly overlooked the tears that welled up in Cordelia’s deep blue eyes and changed the subject. “Slow down, Cappy. If you continue to give every serviceman two donuts right off the bat, there won’t be enough to last the day.”

  “Abby, have you seen what’s in the kitchen? There are so many where those came from. Don’t worry, we won’t run short.”

  “And the same can be said for good men, Cordelia. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “So they say.” Cordelia turned away, wiped her eyes with a paper napkin, and spun back again to see a dozen or more soldiers and sailors standing in line. “Okay, fellas, who’s next?”

  Abby had known Cordelia for years. They’d been girlhood friends and college roommates at Radcliffe, and Cordelia was the only bridesmaid in Abby’s wedding that wasn’t her sister. How many times had Abby listened to these words? She wanted more for her friend. Enough is enough. What might have been and if only have been eating her alive for too long now, and that simply won’t do.

  The Women’s Army Corps … WACS

  Over 150,000 American women served in The Women’s Army Corps during World War II… Both the Army and the American public initially had difficulty accepting the concept of women in uniform … However … by the end of the war their contributions would be widely heralded.

  The Women’s Army Corps:

  A Commemoration of World War II Service

  by Judith A. Bellafaire

  Abby and Cordelia were both thankful for the next interruption and turned their attention to three friendly WACS who came back for a second cup of “the best joe in Boston.” The one in the middle quipped, “Well, maybe in Boston, but the best Joe in Seattle is six foot one, serving Uncle Sam stateside, and waiting for me to come marching home.”

  When Cordelia reached across the counter to offer the sharply uniformed trio more donuts, the Seattle WAC was taken aback to see someone so beautiful and classy without an engagement or wedding ring.

  “Now, don’t take off for the Northwest, duchess, and steal my Joe.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I don’t think I’d have a chance.”

  All the women, on both sides of the counter smiled and nodded in agreement.

  It was a moment that would resonate with Cordelia for years as she wondered what became of the personable young WACS. Did they make it home? Did the brunette’s Joe wait for her? What uncertain times.

  Abby and Cordelia were restocking the napkins, cups, and saucers.

  “Well, if there is indeed such a thing as a broken heart, Abby, my days are numbered.”

  Abby, cute as ever with her high-spirited ways and sable-black Buster Brown haircut, which she would still have when her locks turned middle-aged gray and even later when they were entirely white, began to laugh. “What in the world did you just say, Cordelia?”

  “Okay, a bit melodramatic, I’ll admit.”

  Abby was pleased she at least got Cordelia to smile.

  “But, Abby, you of all people know how difficult this has been for me.” She opened her eyes wider to keep the second round of tears from falling. “And after Doris’s wedding, I’ll be one of the few in our gang who still isn’t married. What will become of me, Abby?”

  “Between 1940 and 1943, more than a million more couples married than would have been expected in “normal times.” For some, marriage offered hope of deferment; for others, a hasty wedding meant more time together before the husband entered the military. Furthermore, the 1940s saw the median age at first marriage for women reach an all-time low of 20.3 years.”

  Clarence Holbrook Carter’s

  War Bride and the Machine/Woman Fantasy

  by Patricia Vettel-Becker

  “Honestly Mother, if Pip says one more time, ‘always a bridesmaid.’ How in the world is that supposed to be anywhere near acceptable?” Cordelia stood on a firm, towel-covered (to protect the crewel upholstery) hassock in her parents’ sunny bedroom while her mother pinned up the hem of yet another bridesmaid dress.

  “There’s no ill intent, dear. It’s merely an expression.” If only I could believe that myself. I’m afraid our Cordelia is destined for a life much like her aunties, no husband, no children. Oh my. We’ll need to make some changes to our will, so she’ll be well provided for. Perhaps the house should be hers alone. Yes, that’s it. Pip, of course, will come into the family business, but I think it would be very appropriate to leave the house to Cappy. The aunties found tremendous consolation in never having to leave their own family home. Yes, that’s it. I need to speak to Price.

  “And, Mother, will you look at this dress. What in the world was Doris thinking when she selected such a color and style? It’s positively dreadful.”

  Simply stated, Doris, heiress to a railway fortune and the only child of enormously doting parents was thinking, I don’t want anyone to outshine me. I’m the bride, and this is my day.

  Caroline didn’t dare articulate her agreement. Whoever heard of such a color indeed and for bridesmaids’ gowns? “Well, dear, you are after all Doris’s bridesmaid and that means humbly tending to her needs and whims even if it means wearing a less than favorable frock.” Unless the young man in question is blind, Cordelia certainly won’t be catching a husband at this wedding.

  The dresses were long, loose, and puce, with short, puffy, triple-ruffled sleeves and a shapeless waist that left enough room for any future early pregnancy. The bride told her “girls” exactly where to purchase the shoes she’d selected for their ensemble. “Low heels have such a look of ease, don’t you agree?”

  One of them lied out loud. “Oh, Doris, we’ve already purchased our bridesmaids’ slippers. It was supposed to be a surprise and give you one less thing to think about, dear, but please don’t be concerned. They’re very appropriate.” The others silently consented, and the next day, all the girls met downtown and shopped for the most outrageously attractive, open-toed, high-heeled pumps they could find.

  There was seldom a time at the wedding or reception, when Doris’s girls didn’t have the hems of their gowns raised, appearing to demurely lift them so as not to trip, but in truth doing so to reveal their; pretty pumps, polished toenails, well-turned ankles and in one bold instance, shapely calves.

  Caroline helped Cordelia step down from the hassock. “Just remember, Cappy, you’ve a beautiful complexion and a neck like a swan. Merely hold your head high, dear.” She took her daughter affectionately by the shoulders. “And you’re more than welcome to wear my pearl-drop earrings if you wish.”

  Cordelia Ann Parker admired her mother’s ability to make everything seem better than it was and took pride in quoting Caroline’s optimistic wisdom later that day to her two remaining single girlfriends, who were also in Doris’s very large wedding party of eight bridesmaids and groomsmen, a matron of honor, best man, a little boy ring bearer, and two flower girls. “My mother says not to worry about being the last of the unmarried. That God saves the best for last. We need only be patient and pleasant during the wa
it.”

  Cordelia’s parents found themselves going to more weddings than they’d ever remembered occurring in so short a period of time.

  “My goodness, darling,” Mrs. Parker said. “We’ll break the bank with all these gifts. Mr. Atkinson at Shreve, Crump, and Low said I’ve become one of their best, if not most frequent, customers.”

  Caroline Parker selected the same exquisite gift for every couple. A cut crystal vase, from one of the most prestigious, old guard stores in Boston. And with each purchase she reasoned to the clerk at hand, “It goes with absolutely everything, no matter the couple’s china pattern, furniture style, or preferences, and thankfully, I’m spared all that bother of wondering what to give.”

  Price Irving Parker III had been excused from active military duty due to a congenital health problem. Nothing serious, but his erratic heartbeat was cause enough for concern according to Uncle Sam’s Massachusetts medical advisor, who said, “We can’t take a chance on you having a heart attack in the middle of battle, son. Your country will be better served if you remain in your father’s employ and keep those commissioned ships in good repair for the war effort and running on schedule.”

  World War II was escalating, and by now, most of Cordelia and Pip’s male friends were commissioned, drafted, or had readily enlisted in the armed services. Those who had a steady girl, or in some instances, with young women joining up too, a steady fellow, were more than ready to tie the knot before saying goodbye for who knew how long. For sweethearts left behind, the romantic song “I’ll Be Seeing You” was more than a pop tune. It was a sympathetic and comforting wartime anthem. But for Miss Cordelia Parker, every tender word applied to her loss of Mr. Norman Prescott. Indeed, she was forever seeing him, from family homes to church, the Cape, and every other familiar place they had ever spent time together.

  CHAPTER 20

  There was about the house a stillness, which rendered spoken

  words louder and more pointless than at all other times.