The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Pharmacist George McDonough took a kind interest in Buddy. “How’s the little guy today?” He admired the way Buddy’s mother looked after him, saying, “There’s a special place in heaven for people like you.” When George heard the rumors, he knew they were false and defended Ethel Donnelly’s honor whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  “Mrs. Donnelly is a good woman. Have you seen the way she cares for those children? Why, most mothers would give up. It’s Jack Donnelly’s pride we’re talkin’ about here. He doesn’t want the shame of an infirmed son nor the responsibility. Lay off Mrs. Donnelly. She’s blameless.”

  Six months after her divorce from the handsome Jack Donnelly, who people likened to movie idol Robert Taylor, George McDonough proposed marriage. George Mac was good looking too, with dark hair and eyes and light olive skin, and he more than met Ethel Donnelly’s preferences in a man, by being a gentleman with a dry sense of humor, even temperament, keen intelligence, and over all fastidious grooming. Years later, she would say, “It was the package that got me, the way that handsome bugger wrapped himself up, with his spiffy bow ties, French cuffed dress shirts, and just enough sandalwood aftershave to reel me in.”

  George’s obvious lack, what some would call a flaw, was that he stood about three inches shorter than Ethel Donnelly, who only saw his high character, big heart, and kind smile.

  It was tremendously comforting for Rita Margaret King Donnelly to be here in Mrs. Mac’s kitchen like this. Particularly because it was just the two of them now, with the rest of the family out and about, napping, or in the case of Dicky and his father, playing checkers in the living room, the game board precariously balanced on George Mac’s knees.

  It had been two years since Norah King passed away, and Rita still missed her more than anyone could know.

  When it came to the kitchen, Rita and her mother had their own spick-and-span dance for washing and drying and putting away. Every day times, doing the ordinary, would hold some of Norah’s youngest daughter’s most cherished memories, but closest to her heart was being in the kitchen and the rare instance of having a cup of tea alone with her mother.

  Exactly like Mrs. Mac, Norah King was forever doing—doing dishes, doing laundry, doing the ironing, cleaning, sewing, making bread—and because of the doing, it seemed to Rita she saw more of her mother’s back than anything else, except the glance.

  Norah’s doting glance most often came over her shoulder and because she was one of the legions of mothers “with eyes in the back of me head,” Norah knew whenever Rita entered the room.

  “What are you up to then? Is it something to eat that you’re after?”

  “Now, don’t keep your sister, brother, whoever waitin’,” was what her mother said all too often because Rita was “running just a little late” most of the time.

  A good deal of Norah’s sentences were questions because she had the inclination of heart to anticipate needs, forever looking after whoever or whatever was in her path.

  “Can I help you out then?”

  “Wouldn’t that be needin’ a little spit and polish?”

  “She’s down with the scarlet fever, and isn’t it strong beef tea that will bring back her strength?”

  “He’s only just here from Ireland and doesn’t have a penny to his name. Do you think you’d have some work for him then?”

  “Isn’t Christmas a busy time over there at the church? Don’t you suppose we should go to them and see what we can do to help?”

  “Isn’t she after havin’ her seventh, and the delivery a hard one at that? How about we each take a couple of children for the two or three days and give the worn-out mother a well-needed rest?”

  And on and on Norah’s inquiries went, even in the end. “Do you know what’s goin’ on here, children? Do you understand you’ll all be needin’ to look after one another? It won’t be long now. There’s no one more important than your own sisters and brothers. Don’t be losin’ each other. Please say, honest to God, Mum, we won’t be losin’ each other. And will you make me the promise of goin’ to confession, sayin’ your prayers, and attendin’ Mass, even though I’ll not be around to make sure you do?”

  All at once, a feeling of belonging fell over Rita King Donnelly, like a sweetheart’s arms during a slow waltz, here with the treasured Irish soda bread recipe at her fingertips and her mother-in-law up on her feet again, putting the kettle on.

  “Are you ready for another cup, or do you want a glass of ice water instead? What am I saying? You, mother of my first grandchild, may have both.”

  After Rita requested, “Ginger ale too, please?”

  Mrs. Mac teased, “Anything else, my lady?”

  Repositioning her five-foot-two-and-a-half, pregnant body, Rita delicately asked, “Mother, what was the name of your baby girl who passed away?”

  Although Ethel McDonough’s children called her Mum or Mumma, Rita never did. Norah was the only person she’d ever call by that name. But out of respect for her new family she addressed Mrs. Mac as “Mother,” and only as “Mother.”

  By now, Mrs. Mac had already moved on to her next task and was hurriedly scrubbing potatoes before putting them on to boil, as a first step to making potato salad. She turned and didn’t say a word at first, giving Rita reason to think maybe she’d made a mistake in asking. Then Mrs. Mac leaned back against the sink, wet hands dripping on her daily uniform, a simple housedress (it was her way to change out of “good clothes” as soon as she got home) covered with a print apron, which reminded Rita of her own mother’s daily dress.

  Ethel McDonough was extremely fussy about aprons. “I like the straps to button at my neck. The criss-cross kind drive me crazy with the way they always slip off. I have no time for such nonsense.”

  Mrs. Mac was taken by surprise. Nobody ever talked about “the baby girl we lost,” and she assumed Bob must have said something. The answer came as she stared somewhere above Rita’s head. “Her name was Ruth Ann.”

  The wistful woman dried her hands, walked across the kitchen, sat down and with her right hand smoothed the bare table surface back and forth, as if sweeping something away, perhaps the last crumb of sorrow. “Ruth, because I’ve always loved that name, and Ann for my sister, Anna.” A tear appeared on the back of Ethel McDonough’s blue-veined hand. She wiped it away, and without hurry, put the tablecloth back in place. After all these years, tears still fell for the baby girl named Ruth, “because I’ve always loved that name.” Ann, “for my sister.”

  Rita’s well-kept secret soon began to show, and tongues began to wag. “I bet she’s in a family way.”

  The new baby came “early” at Harley hospital in Dorchester, first grandchild on her father’s side and second on her mother’s.

  Young uncles proudly passed out cigars, and one was promptly shooed out of the building for smoking in the maternity ward. Young aunties, after they’d finished cooing, tried to determine who the baby looked like, with the conclusion being her mother.

  Rosemary, just in from New York, was shamelessly specific. “She’s a King all right. Look at those dimples,” and she rushed out to buy something frilly and pink. Kay beat everyone to the punch weeks earlier, when she took a chance and sewed a pink, dotted Swiss skirt for the same bassinette that cradled her baby boy the year before.

  “Listen, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong and Stevie’s blue will have to do. But mark my words. You’re carrying a girl.”

  Ethel McDonough’s gift had been a christening gown all the way from Ireland, purchased months ago at Pober’s children’s shop in Perkins Square, because infant baptism was utmost on her mind. She wanted to help bring Rita and Bob’s baby into the church as soon as possible. “God forbid, another Ruth Ann should spend her days in limbo and the family never know if our prayers got her into heaven.” The first Ruth Ann never made it to church.

  Limbo could be called the Catholic Church’s grace land, a spiritual realm between heaven and hell where prayers of petition have the potent
ial to deliver a deceased, unbaptized baby straight to heaven, despite its tiny soul being marked with original sin.

  Ruth Ann Donnelly was born the day before Thanksgiving 1945 and christened eleven days later on a Sunday afternoon at Saint Peter’s Church, in Dorchester, Rita and Bob Donnelly’s new parish. Bob carried the baby up the steep cathedral stairs, while Rita, still not quite up to par, firmly held onto his arm. When she shivered, having worn the only outfit that presently fit, a charcoal cotton, white-collared-and-cuffed maternity dress, Rosemary worried that the new mother would catch her death in the crisp autumn weather. Without delay, she unbuttoned her red coat and took it off. “Here, honey, this will take care of that chill.”

  “I’m fine, Ro, and it won’t fit me anyway.”

  Rosemary laid the coat over Rita’s shoulders and patted them, one, two. “Of course it does.”

  Saint Peter’s Church

  278 BOWDOIN ST.

  DORCHESTER, MASSACHUSETTS

  Mrs. Mac was now “Grammy,” and she stood in close proximity to the marble baptismal font, with Rita and Bob and her immediate family, including fifteen-year-old daughter Jane, the baby’s godmother, and most of Rita’s family too. John Michael—recently and honorably discharged from the Navy—was the baby’s godfather. Father York held the infant securely with the length of his sturdy arm, her head supported by his wide-open palm and poised over the font to receive holy water and blessing. It was in that very moment that Mrs. Mac stepped closer and silently petitioned heaven. Please, dear God Almighty, let this christening be for my baby Ruth Ann too.

  All my growing up years and to this day,

  I have been explaining my two names—first name,

  Ruth Ann.

  A middle name would follow at Confirmation but it lagged behind

  like an afterthought. People always want to know why I’m not

  Ruth, but Ruth Ann, “two words, one name, and no e on the Ann

  please. No, Ann isn’t my middle name. My middle name is Marie.”

  In third grade, Sister Cecelia insisted I write it as Ruthann, and

  when my mother learned of the alteration, she rushed to Saint

  Gregory’s School, baptismal certificate in hand. “Sister, she was

  christened, Ruth Ann.” The name game litany is what my mother

  and grandmother began that long ago day in the kitchen.

  God bless them.

  Ruth Ann Marie Donnelly

  CHAPTER 22

  To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements.

  They give people the opportunity of finding out each other’s character

  before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

  OSCAR WILDE’S THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

  OLD BIDDIES AND YOUNGER ONES too, began counting backward whenever a baby came sooner than nine months after the wedding.

  “Preemie, my eye! She was expecting way before they got married.”

  “When a girl loses her mother, anything can happen and did!”

  “Wasn’t it Jean Adair, housekeeper over there at Saint Augustine’s, who told me all about it? Shortly before tyin’ the knot, Rita and Bob met with Father Kenny, and the pair of ’em left in tears. You can only imagine what the poor priest had to deal with, her without parents and him just out of the service with his newfound worldly ways.”

  It all began innocently enough, more than two years ago, when the McDonough family came to Norah King’s wake to pay their respects, even palsied Buddy, who was being carried in Bob’s arms when they got to the door. Their brother, George Junior, followed closely behind, carrying a wheelchair, which Rita and Johnny helped to position beneath the personable, but nonetheless helpless, young man.

  Bob remembered seeing Johnny’s younger sister around the neighborhood, but who knew she’d turn out like this? What a doll.

  Rita remembered him too, but always thought of the boy with the baby-blue eyes as too old for her. And besides that, he was her brother’s friend. She liked keeping things simple and separate.

  “Rita, you know Bob Donnelly?” Johnny asked quietly.

  And Rita answered even more softly, “I’m afraid not, but thanks for coming.”

  On that saddest of days, she didn’t give Bob Donnelly a second thought, and he couldn’t get her off his mind.

  Bob reluctantly waited a decent amount of time before contacting Rita. But time was of the essence, and shortly before leaving for Navy boot camp, he went to Morris’s Pharmacy and asked George Mac, away from the ears of the rest of the family, if he thought Rita King would go out with him for a bite to eat.

  His stepfather stopped counting capsules, looked up, and chuckled. “What in the world are you asking me for, Bob? Why don’t you ask Rita? Pretty girl. Hear she’s living with the Callanans now. Got their number right here, and you can use this telephone if you make it short. Aw, forget it.” George handed Bob a nickel, so he could make the call from a phone booth in the far corner of the store. “I know you kids like your privacy.”

  Bob had plenty of change in his pocket, but he knew George Mac would have been insulted.

  “Now, don’t tell your mother. She’d skin me alive if she thought I’d spent a nickel that could’ve been saved.”

  Their first date was for a late lunch and an early movie, starting at Joe’s Spa (grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, with a vanilla frappe for Rita and Moxie soft drink for Bob) and then on to The Broadway Theater.

  Rita knew everyone at Joe’s Spa, or so it seemed as guys and gals called out.

  “How are ya, Rita?”

  “Will your brothers be comin’ home soon?”

  “Cute outfit.”

  “Hey, I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

  Bob saw familiar faces too, but never ventured far as he said hello up close or signaled it across the cacophony of music, exclamations, and laughter with a show of two fingers and a nod. The soon-to-be sailor couldn’t believe his luck. The prettiest girl there was with him, and if things went the way he hoped, she’d be with him always. Always.

  Rita was so distracted she hardly noticed how smoothly Bob took care of everything—got them a booth by the window, folded her coat so as not to crush it, and waited patiently for her to finish talking. That is until he brushed crumbs from the red vinyl bench seat before inviting her to sit down. Nice.

  Mindful of how quickly the movie theater filled up on Saturdays, Bob made sure they left in plenty of time to get good seats downstairs. He didn’t want to get stuck taking Johnny King’s sister up to the balcony, also known as “Lover’s Lane,” giving her the wrong idea and having to answer to her brother once he returned home from the war. Not to mention he’d already determined this was the girl he was going to marry, and everything needed to be completely aboveboard. Completely.

  Their seats were perfect, middle aisle, middle row, and at Rita’s request, closest to the end, “I don’t like being hemmed in.” Like everyone else around them, they chatted while waiting for the movie to start.

  “So, how soon do you leave for boot camp, Bob?”

  “First of the month.”

  “You went to South Boston High, right?”

  “Yeah, you too?”

  “Are you serious? My mother wouldn’t let us go to school with Protestants. I went to Gate of Heaven.”

  “No kidding? Did you know—”All at once Bob thought of something. “Rita, I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier, but would you like something from the snack bar?”

  “No, thank you. Mmmm … yes, please. I’d love a box of nonpareil chocolates.”

  He made it back just in time, slipped into his seat, opened the package of candy, and handed it to her. A minute later, the lights went out, and you could have heard a pin drop when the newsreel flashed up on the screen. There wasn’t a person in the theater that didn’t know someone who was in the armed services. People were hungry for news from the front, and all eyes were glued to the tumultuous scenes before them as
the announcers gripping, drawn-out pitch reported,

  “Innnvasion of the Solomon Islandsss gets under waaay, U.S. troops go overrr the side of a transport ship to enter landing bargessss at Empress Augusta Baaay, Bougainville.”

  When it came to selling war bonds, newsreels from the front opened people’s wallets like nothing else. Subsequently, most theaters had a table set up in the lobby ready for business. And if good-looking girls ran them, increased sales were a sure bet.

  The feature film was Road to Morocco, starring Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour. “The boys find themselves in hot water, or rather hot sand, coping with the Bedouin and a beautiful Arab princess.” It had the audience in stitches most of the time, but when Bing tenderly sang “Moonlight Becomes You” to exotic beauty Dorothy Lamour, Bob Donnelly couldn’t help but think of the pretty girl sitting next to him.

  At one point Rita and Bob found themselves staring into the glare of a bobbing flashlight, as a skinny, long-necked teenage boy suited up in an elaborate, red, gold-trimmed usher’s uniform with matching cap inquired, “Youse two doin’ okay?”

  And Bob said good-humoredly to his friend’s younger brother, “Scram, Doyle. You’re making us miss the movie.”

  “Geez, Bob, I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”

  “I understand, and we’re just trying to watch the movie.”

  Undaunted, the usher sauntered down two more rows and beamed another couple. “Youse two doin’ okay?”

  Rita laughed. “Give Jimmy Doyle a uniform, and he’s practicing to be a cop on the beat.”

  Bob added, “Don’t forget the flashlight,” and a wave of “shhhhhh” came from all directions. They both raised an index finger to their lips and silently shook with hilarity at the mutual gesture.

  He wanted to hold Rita’s hand in the worst way but didn’t dare. It’d been hard enough to get that first date. Rita only accepted his third invitation because so many of Southie’s boys had already gone off to war, and the one she’d been seeing, though not on a serious basis, at least not on her part, had joined the Marines.