However, the twenty-year-old new mother went about her business in Southie, head held high, just as her mother had taught every child in their family to do on the other side of “misbehavin’,” after first making things right with God. “Sure and there’s shame to be had by us all, but isn’t that why Jesus Himself died on the Cross? That we might have forgiveness and a new beginnin’? Go to confession now, say your Act of Contrition, do your penance, and get on with it. For if you don’t, it will eat you alive, guilt will. No mopin’ about over old business!”
How could Norah King possibly have known when she was teaching her own children about life and faith, propriety and purity, economy, endurance, and “makin’ a decent appearance” that many of her lessons would resonate for generations, right into the next century? How could she have known? It would have made her happy. It would have made her proud. It would have made everything all worthwhile. And it did.
Mary Callanan had been completely ignorant of Rita’s premarital dilemma, until the untimely birth of what she’d assumed all along was a honeymoon baby. Mary loved Rita King like a daughter and was heartbroken about the whole state of affairs but never took her to task. What’s the point? It’s all water under the bridge now. And Rita really is a good girl, God love her. And she chose to look the other way whenever anyone else brought the subject up.
It was on a busy Saturday afternoon at Helen’s Bakery—when people were lined up three deep, buying bread, rolls, cookies, cakes, and pies for Saturday’s supper and Sunday’s dinner—that Mary Callanan reached her limit with the gossip. And she was reminiscent of the Blessed Mother herself with “full of grace” words that began to turn everything around for the well-intentioned couple.
“Listen, ladies, will you?”
She pleaded with her cronies after they brought up the “Donnelly situation” yet again in hushed tones while at the same time keeping a watchful eye on the bakery’s cases and shelves of quickly disappearing baked goods, as the line slowly inched to the front.
“God in heaven, don’t you think it’s high time for us to help them be a family and stop rehashing what He’s already forgiven?”
The bakery was noisy, stuffy, and hot from the ovens, too many people, and frantic activity on both sides of the counter. Mary unbuttoned her weighty melton wool coat. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, between the heat and your condemnation, God save us.”
“Now, Mary—,” one of them placated.
Norah’s faithful friend held her hand up and kept her voice down. “I’ll thank you not to ‘now Mary’ me, Peggy Burke.” Then she perused the entire group. “We’ve got to ease up on talkin’ about those two out of respect for Norah King’s memory if nothin’ else.”
Peggy Burke had a look of “who do you think you are?” but flabbergasted everyone when she meekly said, “Thank you for stoppin’ us,” and looked at the other women who were hanging on every word. “Mary Callanan is absolutely right. This is Norah’s daughter we’ve been talkin’ ’n’ talkin’ about, and in her blessed memory, I myself am not goin’ to say one more thing about the whole unfortunate episode. Are you with me then, girls?”
After a bit of looking down at the marbled gray-green linoleum floor, across the bakery, and toward the bell-topped door that seemed to ring endlessly, one by one they answered.
“Absolutely.”
“Wouldn’t think of havin’ it any other way.”
“Whose ready to stop talkin’ and start sippin’? Tea at my place everyone?”
It went without saying that the cups of strong, steaming hot-tea served with milk and sugar would be thoroughly enjoyed, but only after they’d all done what they came for, the well-thought-out selection and purchase of Helen’s delicious “fresh today” baked goods.
“Moral Aspects of the Irish-Catholic Community of South Boston—The importance of unqualified sexual abstinence outside the formal married state was both a social and religious tenet of the community, and the virtues of purity, modesty, and virginity were accepted as articles of faith without question or condition. Perhaps because of their special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary, they adopted an unusually unyielding attitude regarding matters of a sexual nature…”
South Boston: My Home Town
by Thomas H. O’Connor
“Give me a dozen of those hermit cookies, will ya, hon?”
Before long, bygones were bygones, and the Donnellys were well on their way to being a “good Catholic family.” However, there’s always one.
And this one was Edna O’Halloran, who made it her business to be in the know about other people’s shortcomings. If there were a backhanded way to punish the accused, Edna would find a sweet, left-handed complimentary way to do so, seeing the former as sin, and justifying the latter as her personal responsibility.
Edna Theresa O’Halloran felt she’d been shortchanged in life, with her “lummox of a husband” and three children who never met her expectations. Her daughter, God bless her—so dull even the nuns wouldn’t take her in as a postulant—dashed Edna’s utmost aspiration to one day say, “My daughter is married to Christ.”
Her sons, “jugheads” too young to enlist, dropped out of school, got jobs at Gillette, and became yet another generation of blue-collar O’Hallorans. Hadn’t she had higher hopes? Yes, Edna felt life had shortchanged her, and she was dearly making others pay for it.
Edna’s observations about the Donnellys, which she told anyone willing to listen, “and that poor baby of theirs, comin’ into the world before her proper time,” got to Rita’s ears through a delivery system more reliable than a Western Union telegram, the busy-body connection. No details were spared.
Rita didn’t sleep well that night, and when Bob asked, “What’s wrong? You seem restless, honey?” she drowsily answered, “It’s just part of getting used to listening for the baby,” because he, more than she, cared very much what people thought. But the next day, she couldn’t get to Kay’s counsel fast enough.
“Evidently, Edna O’Halloran is making it her business to broadcast our business. So the baby came early? What skin is that off her nose?” Rita’s cheeks flushed. “Tell me, Kay, why would a holier-than-thou woman who serves on the Altar Guild stoop to such mean-spirited talk?”
Pragmatic Kay had her own take on Edna. “Listen, I think it’s because the poor woman is incredibly dim and doesn’t know any better. Don’t let her get to you.” Kay bounced her chestnut-haired, doe-eyed toddler son on her knees. “It isn’t like she’s lying, Rita. You must have known you’d have to pay the piper sooner or later.”
“Kay Chalpin!” Rita looked at her baby, peacefully sleeping on a blanket laid out on the living room rug.
“Mark my words, Rita, before long everything will blow over.” Kay’s hands went in the air for emphasis and Stevie tried to slip off her lap. “Where do you think you’re going, little man?” She stood the tot on his soft-soled saddle oxfords, kissed his chubby hands, and did what she did best, set her sister straight. “Honestly, it’ll be fine. Just remember what Mum used to say, ‘Only those without a thought of their own find pleasure in discussing other people’s business.’ In my opinion that means dim.”
Girded by Kay’s encouragement, Rita was no longer avoiding Edna O’Halloran. She was ready.
Norah’s youngest daughter knew beyond any accusations and unkindness that God saw the night when she and Bob gave in to temptation, his entire family visiting relatives in Cambridge, leaving no one at home when they returned after a romantic Italian dinner, including Chianti. God knew they loved each other and God forgave. He didn’t expect her to do penance for the rest of her life, of that Rita had no doubt, but she wasn’t without regret and ruminated for God’s ears only, the same thoughts over and again. I was so foolish to go against everything my mother and the Sisters taught me about staying pure. I wish everyone would just forget and let it be, not only for my sake but for the baby’s. Please God, protect her from any consequences, please.
Despite her
dismay about the gossip, Rita was determined not to let Edna, or anyone else for that matter, steal her happiness. And at that moment her happiness looked back at her with blue eyes and a dimpled baby smile. “Come on little girl, let’s go see Grandpa McDonough at the pharmacy.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mac, along with the aunts and uncles, had pitched in and bought Rita and Bob a lovely carriage, the kind nannies on Beacon Street pushed their little charges in, a Perambulator, the very best. That was the way of South Boston’s Irish, to scrimp and save so new mothers in the family could have a carriage to be proud of, and join the parade of “mummies” strolling their little ones all over Southie—up and down Broadway and Dot Ave., along the Strand, and around Castle Island—winter, spring, summer, and fall.
Rita Donnelly pushed the carriage at a quick clip down Broadway; it was still cold, and she didn’t want to keep the baby out too long. She’d just dropped Bob’s shoes off at the cobbler and spotted Edna O’Halloran walking so fast in her direction you’d have thought Rita was holding out a hundred dollar bill for the taking.
Edna’s mousy-brown, over-permed hair and primarily drab clothing, along with a build that was little and plump—like an overstuffed kitchen mouse—did nothing to make her memorable. But one thing did: Edna O’Halloran incongruously sparkled. She had a weakness for rhinestone jewelry and wore at least two pieces on any given day—bracelet, pin, necklace, or earrings. This showy penchant often prompted curious inquiries about the fanciness, but Edna didn’t care and said time and again, “It’s my only real pleasure.”
“And Rita, how would you and the baby be this fine, crisp afternoon?” she asked, out of breath.
“We’re doing very well, thank you. And how are you, Mrs. O’Halloran?” Rita held on tightly to the carriage handle.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re a married woman now and a mother to boot. Please call me Edna.” She grinned cunningly from ear to sparkly ear.
Rita’s auburn curls tossed about in the February wind, and she pushed the unruly locks back from time to time. A large kerchief had covered her head earlier but slipped off and was presently tucked in the collar of her tan wool swing coat that stylishly concealed any extra baby weight, making Rita appear smart and svelte.
Edna calculated. She’s got it made. Pretty as ever, and married in spite of her wrongdoing. Well, let’s just see what this newborn looks like.
“I can’t wait to get my eyes on your baby. Everyone says she’s real King-lookin’.”
Edna peeked into the well-appointed carriage, its mattress and pillow were covered in pure white linens, the baby’s name, Ruth Ann, embroidered on the upper left corner of the pillow in petal-pink with tiny matching ribbon flowers kitty-corner. A pastel pink blanket covered most of the carriage opening and was secured around the edges with silver-plated clips from Pober’s on Broadway.
The baby was bundled in a long, white cotton sack with two teeny-tiny buttons at the neck (a crossover, snapped, long-sleeved undershirt, diaper, and rubber pants beneath that), pink knit bonnet, a matching sweater, and booties that were out of sight beneath a white, hooded bunting zipped up to her chin, all of which made the infant look like a frosted confection, her rosy button nose the cherry on top. Lastly, a small white blanket was stored beside the baby and folded in such a way as to make sure the satin winking lamb appliqué showed.
Baby Ruth Ann’s wide-awake eyes were focused on Edna’s rhinestone Scotty dog pin, and Edna’s squinty eyes curiously focused on the baby’s features. She’s even got an adorable … Edna slowly turned in Rita’s direction, folded her arms, and declared, “My, what a healthy little preemie. Heard she weighed in at nine-and-a-half pounds. God bless her!”
With one swift step, Rita pushed the stop on the carriage wheels, folded her own arms, and said, “Yes, she is healthy, Mrs. O’Halloran, and she’s not a preemie. I know what you’re driving at, and I’ll thank you not to. What kind of satisfaction could you possibly get from saying something like that?” And then Rita Margaret King Donnelly let down her feisty Irish guard and became a protective, solicitous mother. “She’s a baby, Mrs. O’Halloran, an innocent baby. Let’s give her a good start. The baby did nothing wrong.” Rita reached in the carriage and covered her daughter with the extra blanket.
There was something in the guilelessness of Rita’s plea that made Edna feel ashamed. She’d been direct but also gentle. Didn’t her manner remind Edna of Norah? Not that she’s quiet and calm like Norah, but it’s there, her mother’s good sense. And isn’t Norah’s pride there too? “Honestly, Rita I didn’t mean anything—”
They were interrupted by a former high school girl friend of Rita’s that happened by. “Oh my God, Rita, I didn’t know you had a baby.”
“Yes, it’s a girl. Maybe all this pink gave you a hint?” Rita said sweetly.
Norah Foley and her sister Mary looked after their dewy, fair-skinned beauty with the greatest of care, as instructed by their mother, Barbara Addley Foley. “Girls, you’re to wash your faces, mornin’ and night, finish with the cool rinse and when the sun is shinin’, never let it get a peek at your fair prettiness. Don a hat.”
After introducing her former classmate to Mrs. O’Halloran, the friends continued to catch up, and Edna, being Edna, contemplated as she put her pinky within the baby’s grasp. The way Norah King went around holdin’ her head high, herself a scrubwoman and him a regular steelworker. Who did Norah think she was anyway? As far as I’m concerned, just havin’ good-lookin’ children isn’t reason enough to think well of yourself. Then, she was a likeable woman. Maybe her pride wasn’t quite that bad. No, I was right the first time, no reason for her to walk around like she and her family were somethin’ grand. But then I’d have to say they all are grand and smart. Look at Rosemary and Kay, both married to college men … and beautiful … and full of pride too, just like their late mother. May she rest in peace.”
If Rita’s late mother had a fault, it was indeed pride.
Norah Catherine Foley King was proud of being Irish, proud of her church, proud of Southie, proud of the city of Boston, proud of getting a bargain, proud of doing a good day’s work, proud of her ability to put a decent meal on the table, and when needed, a fine-lookin’ suit of clothes together, proud of keeping a spotless apartment, proud of her flawless complexion and that her daughters also possessed “the creamy Foley glow,” proud that her children went to parochial school, knew how to say an Act of Contrition, do their penance, and take the body of Christ into their hearts.
“God has blessed me with nine beautiful children,” is what she would say. “No woman is richer, not even Mrs. Vanderbilt herself. She can have her furs and cars, and lovely clothes. I’ve got my nine million dollars: Rosemary, Catherine, Joseph, Noni—God bless her darlin’ soul—John, Rita, Patrick, Timothy, and Thomas. And aren’t my children rich too, for isn’t every one a King? Now I never knew a poor king. Did you?”
Early shadows of day’s end, played tag with the fading light and Rita turned back toward the carriage to see her nemesis adjusting the baby’s blanket.
“Her little hand pushed it aside,” Edna reported.
“Thank you. We’ll be on our way now.”
“I’m sure your husband will soon be looking for his supper.”
Rita left Edna O’Halloran behind her and headed home to Old Colony, her pride and joy intact.
CHAPTER 24
In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right,
as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS
CHARLES DICKENS
THAT AFTERNOON HAD BEEN PRODUCTIVE and peaceful with Hilda busy in the kitchen, preparing Pip’s favorite foods, and Rolf in the basement, shoveling more coal in the furnace at Cordelia’s specific request.
“You know my brother, Rolf. Anything less than seventy degrees, and Pip’s certain he’s a candidate for frostbite. He’s so seldom here, let’s make the house as comfortable as we can
to his liking.”
His liking also included tunes of the times (as opposed to the soothing stream of classical music brother and sister had grown up with): crooners, big bands, and satin-voiced young ladies he called songbirds. Sultry soloist Miss Peggy Lee was his favorite and “in a league all her own.” Presently, a recording of Benny Goodman’s big band performing, “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo,” filled the house with a sense of gaiety. Pip was coming home.
Hurrying, so everything would be ready when her brother arrived, Cordelia’s swift footsteps sounded click-click on the hardwood floors as she scampered back and forth to the dining room, lit the fireplace herself, and fussed with the table setting, where she pinched napkin folds just so, straightened silverware, and placed two pewter candlesticks in straight-line symmetry on either side of an heirloom blue willow bowl filled to overflowing with early hothouse tulips and greens. But the table still wasn’t quite right. Her parents’ place settings were sorely missing. When will I stop expecting them?
“It’s great to see you, sis.”
Pip hugged Cordelia, hat in hand, before taking a tartan plaid scarf from around his neck and removing his snow-dusted camel hair topcoat. “Whew! I don’t know if it’s colder outside or in here.” He tossed all three items on the entry settee, rubbed his hands together, and asked, “Where’s ol’ Rolf?”
“In the basement stoking the furnace. It’ll be warmer before you know it.”
Cordelia gathered Pip’s garments from where they’d already left a faint, damp impression on the settee’s new upholstery, and she hung them on a bentwood coat rack by the staircase.
Price Irving Parker III looked about him. “The house looks good, Cappy, very good.”
“Thank you. I’ve made a few changes since you were here last. When was that? Three, four weeks ago?”
“Come on now, you’re not going to make me feel guilty, are you?”
The Red Coat Page 27