The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  LOUISBURG SQUARE

  ROBERT CUTLER

  THERE WAS NOTHING UNUSUAL ABOUT the front door of the house at number ninety-one, Mount Vernon, being left ajar. The Beacon Hill property’s black, cast-iron fence and at-all-times latched gate, provided a certain sense of inaccessibility and safekeeping from the world outside.

  But today the intricately ornate gate was left wide open for arriving guests, and if a passerby were to steal a glance beyond the doorway or at the downstairs windows, they’d observe a large gathering of black-clad men and women, their conversations streaming out to the sidewalk in a respectful low-toned dirge.

  Price and Caroline Parker were gone.

  The shock of their untimely deaths left Cordelia so bereft she spoke only when absolutely necessary, and losing their parents had sent her brother, Pip, straight to a bottle of his father’s select Scotch and then some. But through it all, the adult children of Price and Caroline Parker maintained a sense of dignity and propriety beyond their sorrow.

  Cordelia stood in the parlor, her back to the dormant fireplace. From this location she could see everything and be seen, making herself available for the condolences of those who wanted a personal connection and most times taking an extended hand in her own two. “Yes, they will be tremendously missed. Thank you for being here.”

  Pip positioned himself in close proximity to his sister, next to a Bombe chest that held a sizeable, slightly tarnished silver tray of crystal decanters he seemed to be tipping endlessly. “My parents had a very high opinion of your family, and were they able to speak for themselves would be extremely grateful for your presence here today. May I pour you something, Scotch, sherry, brandy?”

  Together, Cordelia and Pip had planned the service, gathered pallbearers and selected their parents’ coffins. The burial arrangements had been in place for generations. Mr. and Mrs. Parker would be put to their final rest in the family crypt at Mount Auburn Cemetery, in Cambridge. These distressing but very necessary decisions were the last time Cordelia and Pip would agree on anything, ever again.

  The Parkers’ stately home was filled with people, but noticeably missing was the light and love of Mr. and Mrs. Price Parker, mourned not only by family and friends but also by the City of Boston and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  The couple was renowned for graciousness, foresight, and generosity through their charitable trust for the preservation of numerous Massachusetts historical sites and papers, ever-increasing grants for higher education, and frequent backing of city cultural events. Their home was at all times open to visiting dignitaries, available for fundraisers and most recently for special events related to the war effort, such as A Midsummer Evening of Classic Chamber Music ~ Light Repast to Follow - for the establishment of a Back to School Clothes & Christmas Fund intended for widowed wives of soldiers with dependent children.

  Irish Catholic Mayor Maurice Tobin and former Mayor James Curley, of the same persuasion and presently a congressman, had tremendous respect for the Brahmin couple, whom Curley, long-time Protestant critic, uncharacteristically esteemed many times as “sweethearts to each other and the Commonwealth as well.”

  Both politicians hastened to meet with Governor Saltonstall and proposed the State House flag be flown at half-staff on the day of Price and Caroline’s funeral. Leverett Saltonstall a close, deeply grieved friend of the Parkers, was in complete agreement.

  The “sweethearts” quote appeared in a Boston Globe article about “Curley’s way with words.” Price Parker was mortified to have his wife and himself referred to in such a “highly personal, appallingly sentimental, and thoroughly Irish manner.”

  The governor and Price Parker had been classmates at the exclusive Noble and Greenough School, went on to study business and law at Harvard, crewed for the same championship team, and after a stint in the service during World War I, stood as groomsmen in one another’s weddings, celebrated their children’s births, and through the years, managed to consistently meet once a week for lunch at their alma mater’s private club on Commonwealth Avenue.

  “Absolutely gentlemen, half-staff, from dawn to dusk. Thank you for taking the time to come out in this hellacious heat wave,” he said rather loudly, in an effort to be heard over the whir of a desktop fan in his office.

  The governor of Massachusetts shook each of their hands and then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket as he walked them to the door of his office. “Excuse me, please.” He blew his nose and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. It will be done.”

  The circumstances that led up to Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s untimely deaths were relatively routine. Who could have known?

  It was an ordinary Friday summer afternoon when Caroline and Cordelia returned from the Red Cross offices, where they’d been helping to package cookies, magazines, candy, and chewing gum parcels for servicemen and women overseas. Both women were glowing from their long, arm-in-arm walk across the Common.

  Price was already home, sitting in a comfortable club chair in the parlor, feet propped up on the matching hassock, working a crossword puzzle. “My, my, what do we have here?” The proud husband and father removed his glasses, pinched his nose, and put them back on again. “Two very diligent and patriotic citizens standing right before my eyes.”

  Caroline Parker had long legs and nice ankles. Although she was a matron during World War II, one day, while taking a walk through the Public Garden, several sailors whistled at her, and one called out, “Hey, Betty Grable, I got ya picture in my locker.” She was aghast, quickened her step, and didn’t go anywhere alone for a week.

  Price Parker rose, crossed the room and gave his wife and daughter, each, a kiss. “I’m very honored indeed to be associated with such noble ladies. Now, what’s for dinner?” he asked, tongue-in-cheek, and sat down again.

  “Oh, Daddy.” Cordelia seldom called her father “Daddy.” It just slipped out, but this time day after tomorrow, she’d be glad she did. Cordelia preferred “Daddy,” but after college her father said it seemed rather juvenile. “How about Dad or Father?”

  “Men,” Caroline said. “You’re all alike. When everything is said and done, it’s what’s on the table that matters most.” The attractive matron pushed her husband’s feet to the side and sat down on the ottoman facing him. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know we’re having Yankee pot roast with mashed potatoes, fresh green peas—imagine, Hilda and Rolf grew them in our very own garden—and of course, Lina’s delicious gravy and buttermilk biscuits. We’ll have the leftover Waldorf salad from yesterday’s C.M.S. luncheon for our first course, and dessert, my darling, will be black walnut ice-cream with shortbread cookies.”

  The Parkers’ Swedish part-time cook, Lina, only prepared evening weekday meals, with the exception of some holidays, and special daytime occasions, the City Mission Society of Boston luncheon being one of them.

  Cordelia excused herself to freshen up for dinner. It was in that fateful window of time that her parents spontaneously made plans to take a drive to the Cape on Sunday, just the two of them. It was something they’d done many times before, but not recently.

  Price was weary from all the red tape involved since the government had commissioned a few of Parker Shipping’s vessels, and his wife was, as he liked to tease and did presently, “the best tonic for a tired old man.” For weeks now, Caroline had been longing to have some time alone with her husband. Still, she thought gazing at the only man she’d ever kissed, my darling.

  “Wonderful idea, Price, and we can have lunch at that charming little restaurant in Hyannis Port with the huge lobster tank. You know the one.”

  The call came just as Cordelia was sitting down to an early Sunday dinner with a good book as her only company. “Hilda, please don’t bring the food in until I’m off the phone.” She lay the open book face down, spine up, in order to keep her place and impishly considered the countless times her mother had cautioned her not to do so. Cappy, honestly, you know better. Whatever condition will that book
be in for future readers? We’ve dozens of bookmarks in this house.

  “Hello, Parker residence.” Cordelia answered.

  “Who am I speaking with, please?” a male voice on the other end inquired.

  “Whom am I speaking with?” Cordelia curtly replied.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, if I have that right, but I’m with the Massachusetts State Police, and this is a call of some urgency. I need to speak with a relative of Mr. Price Parker or Mrs. Caroline Parker. Would you be such a person?”

  Cordelia’s stomach tightened. “Yes, I’m their daughter.”

  “Forgive me for asking this, Miss, but are you there alone?”

  “No, not exactly. Our housekeeper is in the kitchen. Officer, what is this about?”

  But Cordelia knew. In the deepest part of her being she knew. And she slid down the wall next to the small telephone desk. “Please, Officer, tell me what has happened to my parents.”

  “Miss, it might be better if you asked your housekeeper—”

  “Officer, I’m not a child. Please, continue.”

  “Miss Parker, your parents were in a terrible automobile accident. And they’re both … deceased.”

  His words fell into a space of complete silence that lasted for what seemed to the young officer at least five minutes, when in fact, it was less than two. “Miss Parker?”

  Cordelia closed her eyes. You need to be strong, Cordelia. No hysterics. No demonstrative hysterics … talk, talk. “What happens now, Officer?”

  “Miss Parker, are you sure you don’t want someone else to take care of this? Do you have a brother or an uncle who can assume responsibility?”

  “I have both, Officer, but I assure you I’m quite capable. Please, tell me what’s next.”

  “You’ll need to drive down here to Hyannis and identify your parents before we can release the … them to your care.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Apparently the driver of the other car fell asleep behind the wheel, and he hit your parents’ automobile head on. All appearances indicate he was hung over, and as is usually the case, this joker survived, although he’s in pretty bad shape. But if it’s of any comfort to you Miss Parker, I believe your parents, if you’ll excuse the expression, never knew what hit them.” There was that long stretch of quiet again.

  ‘Never knew what hit them.’ Why, yes, Officer, I’m tremendously comforted by that.

  “Miss Parker. Miss Parker, are you all right?”

  “Yes, Officer, as right as can be expected under the circumstances.” She took a breath. “Will you please tell me where I can find my parents?”

  Cordelia remained on the floor. She slowly put the receiver back in place and looked all about her. They were just here, and there’s still a hint of Mother’s fragrance. Her father’s briefcase lay on the entry settee, and she crawled toward it. Daddy, why didn’t you see it coming? But she stopped herself. This can’t possibly be happening. She looked toward the front door, half expecting them to walk through it. I’ll never see my parents alive again.

  Cordelia immediately picked up the receiver and phoned her brother, her rival, her only sibling, the person in her circle of relationships for whom she had the least respect and a great deal of conflicted love. There was no answer. Wiling the afternoon away with his latest conquest, no doubt.

  Cordelia pulled herself up, put the phone back on the desk, looked about her again, walked over to the settee and picked up her father’s briefcase. Daddy. She gently put it down and walked toward the kitchen.

  The housekeeper, who’d looked after the Parker family since Cordelia was a baby, covered her mouth with one hand and cried out through parted fingers. “Oh, my God!” She put both hands over her ears and cried out again. “Oh, my God, oh, my God!” And straight from her supposedly Protestant heart, she uttered words of solace from her one true faith, “Blessed Mother of God, oh, my most Blessed Mary, Mother of God!”

  The young lady of the house and the long-time housekeeper fell into each other’s arms and wept. Cordelia was the first to break away and did so abruptly. Hilda pulled her apron skirt up and buried her face in it. Cordelia took a seat at the kitchen table where her mother’s grocery list lay with a pen placed horizontally across the top third of the note pad, creating a facsimile of a cross, and she prayed, God be with us, as tears streamed down her cheeks, but she got right to business.

  “Hilda, I want Rolf to come with me, and you’re to keep phoning my brother’s apartment. Please. Do not tell him about Mother and Father on the telephone. Make him come over here. Tell him he needs to come home. I don’t want Pip to be alone when he finds out. Do you understand, Hilda?”

  The housekeeper was wringing her hands within the folds of her apron. “Yes, Miss Cordelia. But if you don’t mind me saying so, wouldn’t you rather have one of your relatives go with you?”

  “No, this is going to be difficult enough. I don’t want to burden them beyond what’s ahead of us all. Now, do you understand, Hilda? Cordelia picked up the pen and tapped what could have been Morse Code for S.O.S.: tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap-tap. “Your only responsibility is to keep trying to get ahold of my brother.” Tap-tap-tap. She hurriedly wrote down his number.

  As it turned out, Cordelia endured what seemed like an endless drive to the Cape. She identified her parents, along with Rolf, who respectfully supported her elbow during the viewing. Her mother’s golden-gray hair was matted with blood and her face barely identifiable, save her unharmed closed eyes and the small screw-sized mole on the right side of her jaw, which she many times had referred to as “holding me together.” Cordelia’s father, although just as injured and bloodied, was still wearing his glasses, which were completely intact.

  She returned home, and this time Rolf drove. Cordelia phoned the funeral home her family had used for generations and made the first of many arrangements. Pip still hadn’t been located. Where are you, brother?

  Cordelia decided to lay her head down for the night, but did so fully clothed, despite the stifling summer humidity, fell into a deep sleep, and dreamt of her parents in childhood days. Eventually, Norman entered her restless dreams too, carrying a huge Red Cross flag across the Common, with Patsy marching beside him wearing Cordelia’s beloved and long-lost red coat. Cordelia herself was ice-skating on the Frog Pond, making every effort not to trip on the long, tattered bridal veil that surrounded her. And Pip was watching from the sidelines, laughing along with several of his old girlfriends. “That a girl, Cappy, keep going …”

  Cordelia forced herself to wake up rather than bear the torture of such agonizing images, and because it was close to dawn, took a bath and dressed for the painfully long day ahead. The aroma of coffee told her Hilda was already in the kitchen, and Cordelia speculated it had been a restless night for her as well.

  “Miss Cordelia, you’re going to need a good breakfast to keep you strong,”

  Despite the housekeeper’s recommendation, she had only a single cup of coffee and a triangle of toast before walking the short distance to her elderly aunts’ home.

  The cool early morning air helped to clear Cordelia’s head, and the walk provided time to gather her thoughts.

  Aunt Agatha answered the door in a long, Colonial-blue cotton pique dressing gown. “Why Cordelia, what in the world are you doing here at this early hour?” The tiny old woman reached for her hand. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Auntie, I simply don’t know how to tell you what I have to say.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait, dear. You’re just in time for breakfast. Come in, dear, come in.”

  Cordelia loved this ancient brownstone mansion that her great-grandfather had bequeathed to his two maiden daughters. Time seemed to stand still within its high-ceilinged walls, and the profusion of indoor plants, mostly ferns, filled it entirely with a pleasantly musty green smell, which presently had an overlay of frying butter.

  They went straightaway to the kitchen, where Aunt Martha was preparing French toas
t in a big, black, cast-iron skillet.

  “Oh my, Cordelia! What a pleasant surprise. You’ll stay for breakfast, of course. Agatha, would you mind very much setting another place at the table?”

  Aunt Martha flipped the toast and asked, “Well, my favorite niece, to what do we owe this crack of dawn visit?” Cordelia recommended they take a seat, though each declined. “Honestly, Cordelia.” The two platinum-haired ladies—Agatha’s long braid not yet wound up at the nape of her neck and Martha’s coarse curls unruly without the aid of the two dark-brown cloisonné combs that usually kept them pulled back and in place—amiably nodded toward each other, and one gaily inquired, “Might this have something to do with a beau?”

  “No, Aunties, it’s nothing like that.” And for the first time in her life, Cordelia assumed a responsibility that typically would have been her parents’, imparting important family news.

  “There’s been a dreadful accident …”

  Aunt Agatha began to sob, looked as though she was going to faint, and caught herself on one of the rickety ladder-back chairs. Aunt Martha didn’t shed a tear, but Cordelia noticed her frail body slightly shivered when she offered to compose a list of names and begin making telephone calls. “Don’t worry about the bill, Cordelia. We’re not counting our pennies at a time like this.” She emphasized “at a time like this” with a waving spatula, then pulled a chair up next to her sister and sat down, spatula still in hand, butter dripping onto the floor without notice.

  Cordelia used her aunties’ telephone before departing and called Pip’s apartment. No answer. She dialed the family business next, where the receptionist sang her usual salutations. “Parker Shipping. May I help you please?”

  During a tour of Boston soon after World War II, Winston Churchill proclaimed Commonwealth Avenue to be “the grandest boulevard in North America.”

  “It’s Cordelia Parker.”

  “And how are you today, Miss Parker?”