The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Cordelia was cagey, not wanting to give her affluent friend the wrong impression, or more truthfully, the right impression, that she desperately needed the money. “Abby, after giving the situation some thought—”

  “Yes, Cappy?” Abby nervously blinked her eyes as she leaned in closer for the answer.

  “After giving the situation some thought, I’d have to agree with you. I am Chandler’s Linens.” Abby looked perplexed, if not a bit affronted, and blinked again.

  “I’m kidding, dear. This venture wouldn’t be half what it is without your vision. You’re a brilliant merchandiser and have made my job easy. Why, look what I’ve got to work with. I adore this store and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Cappy, you’ve made me not only the most fortunate businesswoman in Boston, but the happiest as well. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

  Abby kissed Cordelia on both cheeks in the European fashion, and Cordelia turned pink. “That may bode well in Europe, madam, but please, let’s restrict our friendly affection to light hugs and handshakes. Agreed?”

  Cordelia could see them in the distance, standing in front of her house, and the first thing that came to mind was salt and pepper.

  “I’m terribly sorry to be late and keep you waiting out in the cold. It absolutely couldn’t be helped. The store I manage had an after Christmas sale, and it was utter pandemonium. What a day! Shall we?”

  In a polite effort to compensate for lost time, the about-to-be landlady swiftly navigated her recently shoveled walkway, snow banks piled high on either side, quickly opened the unlocked front door, and welcomed her would-be roomers in with one sweeping but close-in gesture. “Gentlemen.” A brief tour ensued.

  The two graduate students, on the verge of a new semester, felt grateful to find lodging in such a nice place, and they said so. Fair-haired Richard Malmgren, a shy dental student from Minnesota, spoke up first, fearful the rooms had been shown to others before them and perhaps there was only one left.

  “Miss Parker, I realize you’ll need time to check my references, which I assure you are in perfect order, and if you otherwise find me an acceptable tenant, I’d like to move in as soon as possible. Student housing is wild, and the peace of this house far surpasses anything I’d ever hoped to find.”

  David Miller, a monochromatic study in chestnut brown, with hair, eyes, and a herringbone topcoat all the same color, picked up where Richard Malmgren left off. “This future dentist took the words right out of my mouth. Hopefully the two rooms are still available. I like the idea of living next door to a man who appreciates peace. As far as references go, I trust the professors will have a good word to give you. Meanwhile at the fear of seeming too forward, does any of this seem feasible, Miss Parker?”

  Cordelia knew she’d led an extremely sheltered life, but sheltered or not, she knew people. She just did, and she was convinced these were two very good men standing before her. She had only one reservation: David Miller did not appear to be a student. He seemed too old, not by much, but still too old for her ad’s requirements.

  “Mr. Miller, I may have misunderstood. Are you teaching at Tufts?”

  “No, Miss Parker, but thank you for the vote of confidence. I was finishing law school back in New York when the war got under way, and after serving overseas as a medic, realized I was studying for the wrong profession. Tufts made a place for me, and here I am, one of their more mature medical students. The only thing that consoles my parents about all that tuition is the G.I. Bill. Uncle Sam is paying this time.”

  Cordelia walked toward the front door, and the two baffled men followed her, with David raising his eyebrows at Richard and Richard shrugging his shoulders.

  “Gentlemen, I trust you’ll respect this house and abide by my requests. Your bedroom, bath, the kitchen, solarium, and garden, as I’ve said before, are within limits. Everything else is off, and it goes without saying, but just so it’s perfectly clear, no mixed company in your rooms. You are however free to invite a friend or two to join you for visits, within reasonable hours, in the common areas. If this is amenable to your needs, and of course pending references, you both have a place to hang your hat.” And with that Cordelia opened the door once more for her soon-to-be tenants, only to find Officer Donnelly standing before her with a snow shovel in hand.

  “Hello, Miss Parker.” He spotted the two men. “Evening, fellas.” They look decent enough, wonder why they’re here. “I found this close to the sidewalk. It could get clipped in a minute, even on Beacon Hill.”

  Officer Donnelly and Cordelia Parker were now on speaking terms. At first, she was put off by his “too forthcoming manner,” but soon realized he truly was concerned for the safety of the neighborhood, and she enjoyed their almost daily hellos, when he’d tip his hat and say, “Looks like rain,” “Have a good day,” “The Common’s all ready for Christmas,” or “Happy New Year.”

  One brutally cold afternoon not so long ago, Cordelia had invited Officer Donnelly and the other equally good-looking policeman, who as it turned out, was his brother-in-law, Officer John King, in for a cup of hot cocoa, which they drank in the kitchen absent of her company. “Officers, please help yourselves to more if you wish. I’ll return in a few minutes.” Although Cordelia and the policemen were about the same age she assumed a senior, if not superior, role when addressing them.

  The house felt alive again, with the three occupants coming and going at various hours. Richard Malmgren was seldom seen, and with Cordelia’s consent, he frequently brought coffee to his room where he studied day and night at a desk with a peek-a-boo view of Mount Vernon through the trees outside his window.

  “When you walked the beat in freezing weather it was important to remember three things: don’t get hungry, don’t get wet, don’t get too cold. You had to get walls around you every three hours, even if it was only for five minutes, and it was vital you know which establishments were amenable to an officer of the law ducking in. Not all of them were. And if a cup of something hot was in the mix, well, then you were set. There was a black chef who worked the kitchen in one of those fancy private clubs – it’s not there now – but he’d always have something for us to eat. Yeah, Clinton was a good egg, God rest his soul.”

  Retired Boston Police Officer

  John M. King, Age 83

  David Miller chose to hit the books at the kitchen table, where he drank copious cups of hot tea, most often laced with honey. From time to time, he lit up a cigarette only to take a puff or two until it burned itself out, a study habit reserved for when he needlessly feared he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  Rolf and Hilda were in and out almost daily but couldn’t help Miss Cordelia as much as they’d hoped. Outside employment took most of their time and energy, but they did manage to do a bit of housework and minimally maintain the grounds. Cordelia was grateful they even did that and didn’t mind cooking simple meals for herself, or baking even, when she had a minute. Cordelia followed recipes in The Fannie Farmer Cookbook to the letter and baked brownies more than anything else, due to her success rate.

  Otherwise, the increasingly self-sufficient Brahmin bachelorette depended on modest eateries located between Chandler’s Linens and home, or take-out deli dishes, and once in a while she enjoyed sitting down to a meal of Chinese or Italian food in their respective parts of Boston, Chinatown, and the North End. Jordan Marsh’s blueberry muffins were practically a staple.

  David Miller thought Miss Cordelia Parker one of the most enigmatic women he’d ever almost known. Their verbal exchanges were limited to polite greetings, comments on the weather, and inquiries and answers concerning household business. Miss Parker obviously owned the house, but seemed significantly young for such a grand possession, and curiously, she worked in a linen shop. Not what you’d expect from someone of her caste, unless the business was theirs, and even then it was unusual. Although she appeared to be extremely self-possessed, he perceived vulnerability in the way she avoided eye contact until
absolutely necessary. There were numerous family photographs and portraits throughout the house, and he often asked himself, where are those people now?

  She spent her at-home evenings in the library or parlor, and when they did encounter each other, she continued to address him as Mr. Miller, and never once indicated he should address her as anything other than Miss Parker.

  He observed how much she enjoyed giving occasional, small dinner parties with the assistance of the older couple who lived over the garage, and he never ventured downstairs on those nights, out of respect for her privacy. Nor did Richard Malmgren.

  However, Richard Malmgren didn’t seek Cordelia’s consent to eat in his room and enjoyed Swedish skorpa, pieces of oven-crisped bread, plain or cinnamon sugared, with his coffee, sent on a regular basis by his mormor, his grandmother, in well-wrapped tins from Minnesota.

  David and Richard both knew they had a good thing going and didn’t want to do anything to wear out their welcome. The same consideration took place when Miss Parker was on the telephone in the entry hall. When Cordelia needed absolute privacy the extensions in her bedroom and the study provided their own seclusion.

  Cordelia soon concluded David Miller must come from a fairly nice family because whenever she entered the kitchen, no matter how engrossed he was in the books and papers before him, her lodger would jump up and ask, “Can I make you a cup of tea, Miss Parker?”

  And without waiting for an answer, did so every time, not in the least offended when she’d take it to another part of the house where she could keep to herself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

  PART III

  CHAPTER 28

  You are the peace of all things calm

  You are the place to hide from harm

  You are the light that shines in dark.

  CELTIC PRAISE

  LIFE WAS GOOD ON PILSUDSKI Way, and many of Rita and Bob’s neighbors were people they already knew. There was the Logan family downstairs, long-time Saint Augustine parishioners, mother, father, three children, and the old grandfather. Across the hall from them was the John Egan family; John had been a schoolmate of Bob’s and was on the force too, and they often passed each other coming and going to respective police stations. One in a hurry to get to work on time, the other ready to call it a day—but neither to the omission of courteous recognition.

  “Goin’ well, Bob?”

  “Good, and you, John?”

  Their Old Colony apartment building was basic, brick, and substantial and connected to one exactly like it by an arched passageway that led to a large asphalt paved area, with at least ten long clotheslines suspended from wobbly metal poles. Here and there, scruffy patches of irrepressible crabgrass and dandelions escaped through cracks in the blacktop, in search of better ground. Any number of mothers threatened, “God help the child who dirties my laundry.” They warned playful children to keep away from the temptation of grabbing, hiding behind, and running between rows of sheets, towels, underwear (always a thing to giggle about), and a sundry of other washables.

  “The people in the village (housing project) seemed to share a common bond, a closeness that couldn’t and can’t be explained — just felt.”

  That Old Gang of Mine:

  A History of South Boston

  by Patrick J. Loftus

  It was communal living at its best, each family with their own private living space but greatly caring of the others. It was run of the mill for neighbors to borrow eggs, milk, sugar, laundry soap, and whatever staples a household might run short of, or to “spot” one another with a coin or two, which actually meant borrowing dollars, until pay day.

  The public grammar school, Perkins, was just up the street, which was of no consequence to Rita, since her children would go to Saint Augustine’s parochial. A public library was around the corner, and they could catch the train at close-by Andrews Station. Carson Beach and the great Atlantic Ocean were directly across the road. Best of all, for many families living in Old Colony, was the fact that they could, if they were very careful, save money and move up to a three-decker or nice duplex and maybe, as some vets were able to do with the help of the GI Bill, even buy a home of their own.

  The Donnellys set their sights on eventually getting a bigger apartment away from Old Colony, so Rita took a three-nights-a-week waitress job at Steuben’s downtown, where, according to newspaper reviews, movie stars, famous sports figures, and entertainers chose to go for late night dining when visiting Bean Town.

  Colorful street vendors could be heard all times of day as they hawked their wares to Old Colony residents from specially outfitted open trucks with rolled-up tarps, graduated wooden shelves, baskets and boxes brimming with goods. Closed panel trucks typically carried products that required ice, but once they stopped, the doors were flung wide open.

  “Come getcha Italian ice. We got every flavor.”

  “Fresh fish, fresh fish. Flounder special today, fresh fish.”

  “Fruits and vegetables. Bananas, grapes, apples, turnips, potatoes, carrots, and onions. Bargains ya don’t wanna miss! Fruits and vegetables, fresh fruits and vegetables.”

  Housewives leaned out windows and called from the top of their voices, “Hey Mister! Hey Mister!” They waved frantically to catch the vendor’s attention, or they’d send a child ahead with a message. “My Ma says to tell ya she’ll be right down.”

  The ice cream man needed no words. His truck’s familiar jingle conjured up visions of Hoodsies, Fudgsicles, Popsicles, Dreamsicles, Drumsticks, and ice cream sandwiches that sent every child within hearing distance straight to their mother’s apron pocket.

  “Please, Ma, please just a nickel, Ma, please, please Ma, please, I’ve been good.”

  The ragman’s distinctive Eastern European accent could be heard near and far as he shouted from atop his horse-drawn wagon, the last of two in Southie, with the other belonging to Mr. Segal, the potato man.

  “Rags and bots. Pennies for your rags and bots and newspapers. Rags and bots.”

  There were other tradesmen who came to the front door. The Fuller Brush man with his brushes, combs, and cleaning products “guaranteed or your money back;” photographers who could take the children’s picture right there in the apartment; and the lady who peddled scarves, caps, and mittens she knitted herself and who also took custom orders. “You’re welcome to take care of it with three payments if need be,” she’d pleasantly offer while pulling a spiral notepad from the depths of her big canvas bag.

  The life insurance salesman appeared like clockwork once a month. “Such a small price to pay for your family’s peace of mind,” he assured everyone.

  Mr. Green’s colleagues questioned just how much insurance business he could drum up in the working-class neighborhoods of South Boston. His answer was “plenty,” as long as he was willing to personally collect the payments. That’s how it worked in Southie. You knocked on the door, made nice with the family, and left with the money in hand. He enjoyed it. The people were friendly and eager to do what many considered a step up from the last generation, invest in their loved ones’ financial protection, and they generally reasoned, most times aloud, “Should the man of the house go before his time, God forbid.”

  Today it was Old Colony, beginning with Pilsudski Way and he had to give credit where credit was due. This had nothing to do with insurance and everything to do with self-respect, Mrs. Rita Donnelly’s.

  The last time Mr. Green visited the second-floor, two-bedroom apartment, he blithely referred to Mrs. Donnelly as a housewife in the course of doing business with her husband. Rita heard what he said from the bedroom, where she was ironing Bob’s police uniform shirts to perfection, and marched out, still holding the iron as a precaution from having it fall on her child. But the insurance man didn’t know that.

  “Hello, Mr. Green, just for the record, I am not married to my house. I am the maker of a home for my husband and children, a homemaker.”

  Bob Donnelly was speechless
but proud. Didn’t he love Rita’s feistiness and the way she held that iron, punctuating each point of protest with its shiny plate!

  “Mrs. Donnelly, please forgive an ignorant man’s words. ‘Housewife’ is no longer in my vocabulary.”

  Mr. Green had to agree with Rita Donnelly as he looked around the modest but immaculately kept public housing apartment; she was indeed a “homemaker.”

  The living room drapes hung just so, and the Venetian blinds behind them were free of dust, as was the mottle-patterned linoleum tiled floor. There wasn’t any clutter to speak of, but there was a collection of three miniature porcelain horses on the mirror-backed mahogany shelf that hung over a small telephone desk and chair, now relegated to a child’s use—coloring books and a box of crayons on top, Golden books neatly stacked beneath, with titles facing out, including The Pokey Little Puppy, Mother Goose, The Alphabet A-Z, Nursery Songs and Prayers for Children.

  The furniture in the living room, where there was still space for more, consisted of a nicely upholstered couch and one armchair, two mahogany end tables and one coffee table, one floor lamp, one table lamp, and a two-sided magazine rack with a handle on top. The kitchen was directly adjacent, and a honey-colored wooden table with four matching chairs and tidily tied seat cushions helped to set the two rooms apart.

  Rita put the iron down on the drain board and politely asked, “Mr. Green, may I get you something to drink?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Donnelly, a glass of cold water.”

  She ran the faucet, stepped over to a small, blue worktable next to the sink, and plucked a ruby-red glass from one of two rows of upside-down, jewel-toned aluminum tumblers next to a set of also inverted red, blue, and yellow, carousel-themed children’s glasses. “Are you sure you don’t want ginger ale, Mr. Green?”