The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  “Water is good.”

  Rita’s prized philodendron trailed halfway to the floor at one end the blue table, and a yellow wall clock above it kept perfect time between everyday items and a portrait of the Sacred Heart.

  Mr. Green rightly assumed all of the Donnellys’ furniture had been purchased with a charge account. How else could they afford such nice things on his patrolman’s salary? By the time it’s all paid off, they could have bought everything twice, with interest rates being charged these days. So far the likable couple hadn’t missed one insurance premium, and that was the bottom line for Mr. Green. There’ll be a day they can’t. Sooner or later there’s always a day with these people. So, there’s a day. Most of them are good for it.

  On the following month’s visit, Mr. Green clearly caught the thumping echo of his own heavy footsteps—a Fred Astaire I’m not, as he ascended the apartment house’s inside stairway. He was a large, egg-shaped man and frequently wore more clothing than the weather called for, just in case there was a change. Delicious aromas from a variety of meals already underway for that night’s supper mingled in the air, and every whiff made his mouth water, even if it was primarily “Mick food”: potatoes, boiled meat, fishcakes, frankfurters, beans, and he could have sworn fried eggs too.

  He looked forward to his own evening meal, as promised by Mrs. Green that morning. “So, my dearest, tonight, for your dining pleasure, we’ll have brisket with pearl onions, roasted potatoes, red cabbage, green peas, challah, and for dessert, apfelstrudel.”

  As he knocked on the Donnellys’ sturdy metal door with a gentle hand, it occurred to Mr. Green that he spent almost as much time in these Southie dwellings as he did in his own sizable Tudor home in Brookline. But then, without the one there wouldn’t be the other. The door opened, and there she was, the homemaker, apron clad with a little girl at her side. Two sets of dimples greeted him, and he smiled back. “From my mouth to God’s ears, if it isn’t the best homemaker in South Boston. How are you and the children doing today, Mrs. Donnelly?”

  And then there were two, five-year-old Ruth Ann, and hiding behind his mother, four-year-old Bobby.

  Robert Padraig Donnelly Junior was born only fourteen months after his big sister, and the extended family fondly referred to them as “the Irish twins.” Rita’s next pregnancy almost claimed her life, if not her soul. It was tubal, threatening unbearable pain and eventual hemorrhage. Her doctor said the fetus needed to be removed within two weeks at the latest. Rita protested it was against their mutual Catholic faith to do such a thing. He single-mindedly suggested she discuss her situation with the Church then. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

  Rita and Bob agreed to keep the heartbreaking news to themselves, “at least for now.”

  The troubled twenty-five-year-old mother, her two children in tow, walked to Saint Augustine’s Church nearly every day, lit a candle, and knelt before the flickering votives at the foot of a statue of Mary, the Mother of God, made the sign of the cross, and prayed, always addressing God the Father first.

  Dear God, thank you for giving me two healthy children. Jesus, please perform a miracle and let the doctor be mistaken. Most Blessed Mother, please send a sign, so I’ll know what to do about the baby, my baby. Blessed Mother, what am I supposed to do about my baby?

  Each time, the hopeful believer said three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers and wondered what her mother would have done if this had happened to her.

  Ruth Ann and Bobby were kneeling too, but on the floor, facing the back of the church, using the pew closest to Mummy as a table for their toys, his policeman-fireman-mailman storybook and tiny tin car, her kitten-themed yarn lace-up cards.

  Father Sullivan was outraged when Rita and Bob Donnelly brought their dilemma before him, and he ran an index finger between the Roman collar of his priestly garb and his pulsating red neck to help relieve the pressure he felt from such a sacrilegious request.

  “Did you really think I was going to give you the go ahead to end the life of an innocent unborn?”

  The clock on his desk told him it was almost time for lunch. “There’s nothing to do now but put the situation in God’s hands and wait for His answer.”

  Bob jumped to his feet. “With all due respect, Father, do you realize what you’re saying? You’re putting a noose around my wife’s neck. If Rita doesn’t follow doctor’s orders, she’s going to die.”

  “You’ve got to understand. This isn’t my decision. It’s the Church’s. I’m a mere messenger.” Father Sullivan looked at his clock again. The ticking stridently struck each second of the Donnellys’ silence. The “mere messenger” fidgeted with his cuffs and collar, moved things around on his desk, and dismissively warned them, “It’s wet out there, I hope you two brought an umbrella.”

  The desperate husband and father of two gently touched his wife’s elbow. “Come on, honey.”

  Rita Donnelly gracefully rose. “Bob, just a minute, please.” She addressed the already standing, resolute priest. “I don’t want to go against the Church, Father. We’ll wait.”

  Patrolman Bob Donnelly phoned Rita’s older sister Kay from a public telephone on his Boston Common beat and begged her to talk some sense into his wife. She complied without hesitation and suggested they get everything in order with the doctor before presenting their case. “So Rita doesn’t have time to change her mind.”

  Father Sullivan may have been outraged, but Kay Chalpin was furious at the Church. The place she faithfully went to for solace and worship had decreed a death edict for her sister. Merciful Mother of God, guide me through this maze of madness.

  Two days later, she showed up at the Donnellys’ apartment under the guise of just dropping by for a Saturday visit, which Rita saw through right away, and Kay suspected as much.

  Bob tried to act as if he was genuinely surprised. “Hello, Kay. Where’s Steve?”

  Rita crossed her arms. “For God’s sake Bob, don’t you think I know why my sister is here?”

  Kay got straight to the point. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Rita, and if there was any chance of the baby surviving it would be another thing altogether. Meanwhile, it makes absolutely no sense to anyone other than a host of celibate autocrats for both you and the baby to die. And with or without the Church’s consent, you’re going into the hospital and getting this taken care of, if I have to drag you there myself.”

  Kay tossed a “now it’s your turn” look at Bob.

  “Doctor Ross is a good Catholic honey, and he’s still standing his ground. Kay and I met with him yesterday.”

  Rita let out a mournful sigh. “Mother of God.” She took her apron off and threw it at Bob. And because both children were napping, she kept her vehement voice low, “Do I have any say?”

  Bob raised his voice. “We’re doing this, Rita. As your husband, I’m telling you, we’re doing this. The Carney won’t have any part of it, so Doctor Ross has made arrangements with a hospital that’s willing to help us.”

  Bobby suddenly appeared, sleepy-eyed, clutching a teddy bear. “Am I gettin’ a spankin’?”

  Rita stooped down. “No, my handsome boy.” She smoothed his mussed hair. “Daddy’s not mad at you.” She turned to her husband and said in an even tone, for the child’s benefit, “I’m calling Rosemary right now, even if it does mean paying for long distance.”

  “Jesus, Rita, do you think I care about the cost of a phone call at a time like this?” Bob brusquely lifted the frightened child into his arms. “Be a good boy, go back to bed.” And he put him down again. Bobby looked at his mother, and Bob raised his voice. “Now!” He scooted the crying preschooler down the hall with a smack on the bum.

  Kay told Bob to take it easy and took the telephone from its doily pad on an end table and handed it to Rita. “I thought you’d say that. Ro’s expecting your call.”

  The operating room nurse at Beth Israel asked Rita Donnelly if she had any children, and when she answered “two, a girl and a boy,” Rache
l Maier shook her head. “What the hell were you waiting for? Two children to bring up and you took this risk.”

  Rita closed her eyes, softly wept, and pressed her fingers to the faintly seen scapular beneath her hospital gown. Nurse Maier took her hand and gently patted it. “I spoke too quickly. You’re taking care of it now, that’s what matters. I’ll be with you all the way.”

  The hospital corridors had an acrid smell of ether, but when Rita’s gurney was rolled into the operating room the sweet fragrance of roses met her. She looked around for a source until the anesthesia took hold and she saw her mother, Norah, through the haze. Mum, you’re the roses.

  Grammy McDonough kept Ruth Ann and Bobby for a few more days after Rita returned home.

  Kay visited Rita every day at lunch. “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll get through this.” On Friday, she brought two comforts: Rita’s favorite “fish,” a fried clam dinner from Kelly’s, and from New York, their older sister.

  At the sight of Rosemary, Rita began to fall apart. “Oh Ro, it was so horrible. Kay’s been terrific. I don’t know how … ”

  Norah’s firstborn, the one the rest of her children looked to for advice and approval, tossed her pocketbook and a huge Lord & Taylor shopping bag on the living room chair. She rushed to Rita, who was seated on the couch in a robe and nightgown, and sat down and stroked her baby sister’s arm. “I know honey, but you did the right thing. With all my heart, you did the right thing.”

  “Honest to God?”

  “Honest to God.”

  They sat there not saying another word, until Rosemary sweetly whispered one phrase from the song that was their mothers. “Hush, now, don’t you cry.”

  Meanwhile, Kay put the clam dinners in the oven and the kettle on a low flame for tea later on, set the table, including a bottle of Coca Cola at each place, and stood in the kitchen flipping through a Photoplay magazine until her hunger soon took over. “You two ready for lunch now?”

  As was their way, the King sisters fell into an easy conversation of memories, family, old friends, movies and movie stars, economic challenges and future plans, all laced with much needed laughter, and as always, love and loyalty.

  “Seems like Mum should be sitting here with us.”

  “Let’s face it, girls. The U.S. Navy was our brothers’ saving grace.”

  “You’ll never believe who got married last week.”

  Kay opened Photoplay to a page she’d dog-eared. “Do you think Elizabeth Taylor’s new haircut would look good on me?”

  Rosemary got up to make the tea. “Well, baby sister, I have some good news and a surprise.”

  Rita stacked the plates from where she was seated, not one clam left on any of them. “By the look on Kay’s face, I assume she already knows.”

  “Of course I do, and before Ro tells you about the surprise, please be aware that I’m completely fine with it. You’ll see.” This is just what she needs, a wonderful, absolutely unexpected gift to interrupt all that sadness.

  Rita reached for the porcelain teapot that had been their mothers. “The suspense is killing me.”

  It occurred to Kay that this afternoon was the first time in weeks she’d seen her sister’s dimples.

  Rosemary put an apple-shaped, green glass sugar bowl and matching pitcher of evaporated milk on the table. “Tony’s been offered a great job with United Way.”

  “Congratulations. Finally, you’ll be back in Boston.” Rita knew her sister was dying to come home and assumed a “great job” wouldn’t be anywhere else but home.

  “In Arizona.”

  “Arizona! Oh God, no, that’s too far. New York is bad enough, Ro.”

  Rita stirred and stirred a spoonful of sugar and splash of milk into her steaming cup.

  Rosemary explained, “I know, but it’s a great opportunity, and this is what Tony has always wanted to do, work in social services.” If Rita cries again, I’m done for. Please, don’t cry.

  Rita Donnelly’s utmost camaraderie came from her sisters, and now Rosemary was moving to Arizona. It felt like she was losing her mother all over again.

  Kay cleared the plates away. “Okay, kiddo, next course.” She plopped a Helen’s Bakery box before Rita. “Open it, please.”

  “God in heaven, Kay. I’m trying to digest this move to Arizona.” Pull yourself together. Ro doesn’t need another round of tears. Rita’s teaspoon landed in her saucer with a loud clink.

  “Open the box. It’ll help,” Kay commanded with a grin.

  Those dimples showed again. “Barbara Catherine, you’re absolutely impossible.” Rita cut the thin twine with a table knife and brought her hands together at the sight of sugar-dusted cream puffs and chocolate éclairs neatly arranged in individual, pleated white papers. “You’ll find clean plates in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

  “Are you ready for the surprise?” Rosemary asked with deliberate lightness of heart. This should give Rita the boost she needs right now.

  Rita gingerly shifted in her chair and grinned. “I hope it’s better than your good news, Ro.”

  “You decide.” My God, she’s white as a sheet.

  Rosemary was bursting with more good news, but in light of her sister’s loss, would keep her, “I just found out we’re finally expecting,” announcement a well-kept secret until next month. She went to retrieve the Lord & Taylor bag, and Rita admired her sister’s as usual lovely appearance. Her softly waved blonde hairdo looked like she’d just left a beauty shop, the seams in her stockings were straight as arrows, and a flared tweed skirt flowed over her slim hips as if it had been custom tailored, while a tucked-in, white silk blouse subtly emphasized her spare waist. And those movie star teeth, is it any wonder Ro’s a fashion model!

  Rosemary presented the Lord & Taylor shopping bag. “For you.”

  As soon as Rita looked inside she knew. The garment bag within, folded precisely so Jordan Marsh would be seen at first glance, and a small vinyl window opposite the familiar imprint revealed Rita’s certainty. This was Rosemary’s red coat.

  “Oh my God!”

  The Lord & Taylor bag fell to the floor as Rita stood up and unzipped the other. Rosemary offered, “Let me help,” removed the coat from the hanger, and said, “I believe this is madam’s size. Now, if you’ll just slip that robe off.” She helped Rita into the coat and gently turned her around. “Beautiful!”

  “Ro, I don’t think I understand. You love this coat.”

  “It’s yours, Rita.”

  “I can’t believe this. Are you absolutely positive, Ro? I know what it means to you.”

  “What in the world am I going to do with a winter coat in the middle of Arizona?”

  Kay tugged on the coat’s lapel collar and quipped, “You’ve got to remember, little sister, good fortune comes with this coat. Plan on it.” She kissed Rita on the cheek, and Rosemary kissed her on the other. Kay broke away first. “Dessert is on the table, ladies.”

  Rita sat down and reflected on the gift. This beautiful coat is so much more. Wrapped all around her were Norah’s love, Rosemary’s joy, Kay’s confidence, and now her own comfort. So much more …

  No one in either the King or Donnelly-McDonough families ever mentioned the sorrowful termination again. It was over.

  Much to Rita and Bob’s shocked relief, Father Sullivan greeted them, however coolly, at Sunday Mass, as if nothing had taken place. “If it isn’t the Donnelly family. Come in. Come into the house of God with those two beautiful children.” Forgive them Father, and if it be your Divine will, please take that innocent baby from the loneliness of limbo into Your most sacred arms.

  The Donnellys’ life in South Boston was family, church, work, friends, trying to get ahead, walks along Southie’s beaches, shopping on Broadway, trips into Boston and occasionally out of the city too (with a borrowed car), and an overall satisfying sense of belonging.

  But all was not as it seemed. Robert had a wandering eye. And Rita tried her best to look the other way.

 
CHAPTER 29

  For there we loved, and where we love is home,

  Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

  “HOMESICK IN HEAVEN”

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES SR.

  “WE DON’T WANT ANYONE STEALIN’ dough off the Blessed Mother. There’s a sawbuck in it for both of ya’s.” The North End festival chairman made it his duty to secure protection for the Mother of God.

  “A sawbuck between us, sir, or each?” the uncertain young policeman asked.

  His older, more experienced partner stepped up and said, “He’s just kiddin’, Angelo. When do you need us?” The senior officer had worked these North End feasts for years and never without being paid more than agreed upon. He loved that about the Italians—everything was big and generous.

  “The festival takes place in two weeks, Officers, and here’s how the whole thing breaks down. I know you’ve done this before, Ed, but for the benefit of the rookie.”

  “Rookie.” Bob Donnelly had been on the force for four years now, but decided to let it go.

  “There’ll be marchin’ bands and wall-to-wall people, so lots goin’ on. The Blessed Mother’s statue will be carried through the streets on a platform by ten of our most honorable men. People will be pinnin’ money on her clothin’ and the ribbons too. Every cent goes to the church, and I don’t mind tellin’ ya it’s my own mother who made Our Lady’s beautiful clothes.”

  It was a sticky, warm, June day, and courteous, fastidiously groomed community leader Angelo Cassasa reluctantly removed his expensive linen sport coat. “Excuse me, but I don’t want to ruin this with sweat stains.” He handed it to the hostess at his well-known restaurant, Villa de Italia. “Unfortunately, Officers, some lousy, small-time crooks are willin’ to pull greenbacks right off the Mother of God and hide ’em in the palms of their hands while tryin’ to look like they’re pinnin’ money on. Anyway, if there’s trouble, I don’t want ya’s makin’ any kind of scene. Just take trouble away. Capiche?”