The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  She took a leftover macaroni and cheese casserole from the refrigerator and put it in the oven at a low temperature. This will give me time to put everything in order first.

  Her few dinner dishes washed and put away, the teakettle steaming, flame below it turned off for the third time, there Cordelia stood, worried about a man she hardly knew. A boarder, for goodness sake … I’ll be completely worthless tomorrow unless I get my rest. “Go to bed,” she heard herself saying out loud, and it concerned her. Now I’m an old maid who talks audibly to herself.

  As Cordelia donned her Parisian-blue, white-piped cotton pajamas and contrasting white, blue-piped, monogrammed robe (a birthday gift from Abby this last spring) it dawned on her it must be David Miller who made sure the two lights were always on when she returned home. Surely he has no personal need other than the hall light when it’s time to retire, very thoughtful.

  She’d been home for three hours now, and still no sight nor sound of her other boarder, except a sliver of light from beneath his bedroom door and the ever-present whiff of coffee. Richard Malmgren was shy, and that was fine with her. This isn’t a social club. He needed a place to live, and she needed the income.

  Cordelia decided to go downstairs and have that last cup of tea after all but detoured to the parlor first, to peek out the window one last time. The storm was still fierce, and she cherished the feeling of safety her well-built, ancestral home provided as raindrops pummeled against the windowpanes and tree branches blew to and fro, one wrenched from its trunk.

  Inexplicably her unrequited love, Norman Prescott, and his Irish wife, Patsy, came to mind, and an only too familiar ache returned with her “if only” recollections. It was snowing. I was wearing my beautiful red coat. She envisioned herself as she was in those days, blithe, with not a care in the world save winning the heart of her lifelong love. Norman had his arm around me.

  And then she saw him. David Miller was clutching his hat, head down, and rushing toward her front door.

  Oh my, he can’t see me like this. She rushed to the stairway but didn’t make it in time, so she quickly turned around, secured the tie on her robe with a double knot and faced the door. “Oh there you are, Mr. Miller. I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. My goodness, you’re absolutely drenched.”

  “Very observant of you, Miss Parker,” he chuckled. “I can’t remember the last time I was in such fierce weather.” He remained on the entry rug, removed his soaking wet shoes, and looked around for where he might deposit them, as well as his dripping hat and coat.

  “Just put your things on the hall tree for now. This marble floor has seen its share of water, not to worry. And you can place your shoes by the cellar door in the kitchen. They should be dry by morning.”

  The slightly embarrassed, pajama-clad landlady headed for the kitchen first. David Miller entered minutes later, carrying his soppy shoes. As he was washing his hands in the sink, she said, “Mr. Miller, you look as though a cup of hot tea would do you good right now.”

  “At least a cup, Miss Parker.”

  “Well, I’ve made a whole pot.”

  And without any fanfare, announcement, invitation, or awkwardness, Cordelia Parker set two places for tea with family-acquired, old-fashioned, floral-patterned china relegated to the kitchen years ago. She sat down and poured a cup for each of them.

  Meanwhile, Rolf and Hilda spied the late night “tea for two” through the kitchen window of their over-the-garage apartment. “Come, come,” Hilda beckoned Rolf. “Look. Miss Cordelia is sitting at the table with that nice doctor.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Miller, what in the world kept you out on such a night?”

  He was ready for a second cup but warmed hers first. “To answer your question, one of my professors and his wife invited me to their home for dinner, but unbeknownst to me, they also had a bit of matchmaking in mind.”

  “And were they successful?”

  “Their daughter’s an intelligent and, I might add, very attractive young lady.” He held his cup steady and stirred in two teaspoons of honey. “But she’s not the one for me,” he said as he brought the cup to his lips.

  “Well, Mr. Miller, it’s good to know you’re safe and sound. Excuse me, please, but I’m afraid it’s way past my bedtime.”

  David Miller stood when Cordelia did. “And mine as well. Thank you for the tea, Miss Parker.” When she began to clear the table, he insisted, “Please, allow me,” and accidentally brushed her hand when he took the teacup from it. Her subsequent blush surprised him.

  “Thank you, and good night, Mr. Miller.”

  “Good night, Miss Parker.”

  He didn’t budge until she was completely out of his sight.

  Cordelia inadvertently caught David Miller’s standing-still reflection in a large mirror over the sideboard as she passed through the dining room. Good night, Mr. Miller.

  The next day, Miss Cordelia Anne Parker awoke to a clear, sunny, glorious Boston morning, went straight to the kitchen as part of her usual routine, and directly looked toward the cellar door. David Miller’s shoes were gone. My, he had an early start.

  However there was a piece of folded notebook paper, addressed to her, on the table.

  Dear Miss Parker,

  Last night’s hot tea hit the spot. Thank you for your kindness.

  Sincerely,

  David Miller

  When she went outside to collect the newspaper, a fresh, luxuriant breeze of green, earthy scents came toward her. Green grass, green trees, and green foliage, some just changing color, all tossed and washed clean to their utmost beauty by the unexpected storm, wet soil, wet cobblestones, and wet bricks all contributed to the overall enchanting ambiance of Beacon Hill after the rain.

  I’ll never leave this house. Feet first, isn’t that what I said? She opened the newspaper and folded it up again, much too distracted to read headlines. She couldn’t get David Miller off her mind, from the minute he opened the door last night to their parting in the kitchen.

  Maybe I should ask my boarders to call me Cordelia. She tried to imagine how the gently handsome medical student, who forever seemed to possess a five o’clock shadow, might say her name, or would he prefer to continue with Miss Parker? Thank God Eleanor came up with such an agreeable way for me to keep on living here. Boarders, whoever would have thought?

  That same morning in Jamaica Plain, Rita Donnelly, still in her pale-pink, long-sleeved nightgown, white chenille robe, white bobby socks, and moccasin slippers, was busy cooking breakfast for her husband. He sat at the kitchen table partly dressed for work in stocking feet, his dark uniform pants, and a full white undershirt, drinking hot coffee and reading The Boston Globe.

  She loved looking at him. Even on his days off, he was clean-shaven, hair combed just so, and chose to wear comfortable yet presentable clothing.

  And more often than not, when Bob donned the rest of his B.P.D. gear, she would say with a beguiling smile reserved for him alone, “Oh how I love a man in a uniform,” despite her certainty there were other women who thought the same thing of him.

  It was little things, like the smell of perfume on his coat a while ago. When she questioned it, he claimed, “Some old woman hugged me with gratitude when I helped her get on the trolley.” Rita wanted a happy home for her children, so she accepted his “ridiculous explanations,” but she knew in her heart it would have to be faced sooner or later. For now, she chose later, hoping for the best. My husband is a philanderer. God help me.

  She placed a plate of bacon, eggs, and two slices of buttered toast before him, popped a tiny sampler jar of Trappist orange marmalade on the table, and returned to the stove to stir the children’s oatmeal. The marmalade was part of a gift sampler given to Bob by a Boston Miss on his beat, but he told Rita it came from a “nice family” on Beacon Hill.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s going to rain anymore, so I’ll go shopping today instead. Who knows what tomorrow holds?” Rita was nervous ab
out the announcement and attempted to waylay her husband’s usual inquisition with inordinate cheerfulness. Bob tried to keep a tight rein on her, and his interrogations about the amount of money she spent were very often the beginning of yet another fray.

  “I’m taking Ruth Ann with me, and your sister already agreed to babysit Bobby and baby Catherine.” Rita’s dimples were showing.

  Bob was under the impression that all of Rita’s part-time waitress earnings went directly from her pocketbook to the Whitman’s Sampler candy box “bank” in the top drawer of his dresser. Yes, what was in her pocketbook, but not the little bit she secretly tucked in her shoe before leaving Steuben’s.

  “What are you going to buy?” He drank more coffee and put his cup back in the saucer with a fairly forceful hand. “Do we really need anything?”

  The diligent homemaker stopped stirring. “Listen, I don’t question the way you do your job. Please give me the benefit of the doubt. Okay?” I knew he was going to do this. “Listen to me, Bob.”

  He’d returned to reading the paper and put it down in exasperation. “Go on.”

  “Everyone says how well-dressed our family is, and how do you suppose that happens? Looking and looking for the best markdowns in Filene’s Basement, that’s how it happens. And I need to buy a gift for your mother. We’re celebrating her birthday on Sunday at Aunt Jean’s.” God knows he won’t deny his sainted mother a gift. Rita pressed on her pin-curled hair as if the escalating confrontation may have loosened one or two pins. “And I have to find out when Jordan’s and Filene’s will be getting their First Communion dresses in. I don’t want to shop for Ruth Ann’s when everything’s picked over.”

  “Jesus, Rita, its fall. Isn’t First Communion in the spring?”

  “Jesus, Bob, this is the most important day of her life, and I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  Bob drummed his fingers on the table. “Seems like you’re looking for excuses to stay downtown longer. If Ruth Ann wasn’t going with you it could look suspicious. She’s absolutely going, right?”

  “You listen to me, Bob Donnelly. Don’t you ever accuse me of a thing like that again. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I can’t believe you’d even think it.” She threw the oatmeal-covered spoon on the table, and some of the cereal stuck to her husband’s undershirt.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Pick it up.”

  “No.”

  He tightened his grip. “Pick it up, Rita.”

  “No.” I’m not going to put up with this kind of nonsense.

  He shot out of his chair still clutching her wrist. “Pick it up.”

  With her free hand, she grabbed a frying pan. “Unless you want to show up at the station with a flat face, you’d better let go of me.”

  He forced the pan out of her hand. “Nice breakfast,” he said, and banged the pan down on the stove.

  She rubbed her wrist and grinned, “Want another cup of coffee, honey?”

  “You’re a real piece of work sometimes, you know that.” Bob reached across the kitchen floor for his sturdy, black police shoes right next to Rita’s black high heels and Bobby’s black-and-white saddle oxfords, where they had been placed on newspaper the night before, after he’d painstakingly shined each pair. “I have to finish getting ready for work.”

  “Send the kids back, okay?” Rita pulled the highchair closer to the table. “I’ll get them started and take the baby out of her crib in a minute.”

  Bob stepped into the long hallway with his heavy-footed “Jack and the Beanstalk” giant walk and bellowed, “Fee, fi, foe, fum! Here I come!” to the playful screeches of Ruth Ann and Bobby.

  CHAPTER 31

  The times may be gone when children accompany their mothers

  downtown for a day of shopping and lunch in the tea room …

  and when the personality of a city or town can be read in its big

  stores. But those days are far from forgotten and they still have

  power to influence how we shop today.

  SERVICE AND STYLE: HOW THE AMERICAN DEPARTMENT STORE

  FASHIONED THE MIDDLE CLASS

  JAN WHITAKER

  RITA DONNELLY ADORED SHOPPING IN downtown Boston with all the hustle, bustle, and beauty of the city—stately buildings, elaborate store window displays, and vast choices. She had a well-known flair for finding the best bargains in Filene’s Basement; Ruth Ann almost always accompanied her, and they followed the same path every time. First came a visit to one or two posh stores on Newbury Street, just for fun, where upon inquiry, beautiful linens, eyeglasses, china, stationery, lingerie and stockings, hand-dipped chocolates, and many other fine items were taken from exquisite cabinets, display cases, drawers, and shelves for Rita’s unabashed perusal. And if a little something affordable caught her eye, she made the purchase and proudly carried the uptown bag that said she could shop in such places. Just walking in the door of these stores—usually a highly lacquered red, black, or dark green, with brass handle, kick plate, and numbers—was a pleasant experience.

  “Good afternoon, may I be of some assistance to you?” the toney clerks would tout.

  This all stood in stark contrast to the bargain battleground of Filene’s Basement, where it was every woman for herself.

  “Are you gonna get that or not?”

  “Hey, that’s really cute. Where’d you find it?”

  “The line starts back there, lady.”

  “Are ya all set? I’ll ring it up for ya’s right over here.”

  Jordan Marsh Department Store

  WASHINGTON STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  After Newbury, came a quick walk around fashionable department stores, including Jordan Marsh, where they’d stop for a snack of Jordan’s blueberry muffins, or have a half dozen boxed up to take home, and visit departments of interest. Then on to Filene’s, where the expensive upstairs tour always came before the downstairs bargain, treasure hunt, the very reason Rita came to town in the first place.

  Jordan’s and Filene’s had select merchandise enticingly displayed in massive sidewalk-level windows and on well-dressed mannequins strategically placed throughout the enormously popular stores.

  The female variety had long eyelashes and petulant smiles. Most were in classic fashion-model poses with one foot forward and an arm raised at the elbow. Its open-palmed hand with a perfectly manicured index finger pointed delicately toward the potential customer as if to say, “This way, please. You’ll find your size right over there.”

  Jordan Marsh and Company combined an elegant atmosphere with excellent personal service and a wide range of merchandise…the store drew shoppers from the city as well as from the growing “streetcar suburbs.” Once at the store, consumers could do more than just shop. Jordan Marsh offered fashion shows, a bakery famous for its blueberry muffins, art exhibitions, even afternoon concerts.

  Mass Moments-

  www.massmoments.org

  The eye-catching, impeccably ordered displays of goods throughout the stores were practically irresistible, as was the clothing on mannequins of every size: men, women, and children in seasonably smart outfits and winning postures. To post-war shoppers, the perfect, pretend people represented peace, prosperity, and the good life.

  Whatever went unsold in Filene’s upstairs, eventually made its way to their bargain basement and into the hands of discerning shoppers with, as Rita’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Mac, said to nobody in particular, one too many times, “champagne taste and beer pocketbooks.”

  Although Bob was a good provider, his policeman’s wages could hardly cover the cost of many upstairs purchases, but in Rita’s hands his paycheck was a passport to the land of good appearance, leaving anyone who ever saw their flawlessly dressed family of five believing they were fairly well off. For Rita, it meant she was in the running, not the orphan teen left behind, not the bride “in trouble,” but the lovely lady her mother intended. Just like her older sisters, Rosemary and Kay.

  And even though it was a bi
t of a walk, across the Common and past the Public Garden, Rita always went to Newbury Street first. “We don’t want to look like ragamuffins carrying bargain basement bags all over Boston,” she explained to Ruth Ann.

  Each and every time, the self-respecting wife and mother approached her shopping experience with great care and tactical planning. She instructed her daughter, “Being properly dressed is a must, if you want the salesladies to treat you well.” Rita would never think of going downtown without wearing high-heels, gloves, and most times, a suitable hat.

  This morning, with or without her husband’s approval, Rita Donnelly would soon be off to enjoy what she considered the equivalent of a vacation on the Irish Riviera, Scituate, Massachusetts, shopping with only one child at her side.

  As usual, New England’s fickle autumn weather bordered winter with pleasant Indian summer one day, bone-chilling wind and overcast skies the next, or a sudden rainstorm. And Rita couldn’t quite decide which coat to wear. The raincoat is out, too ordinary, and my navy boucle still looks nice but not nearly as good as Rosemary’s red coat. She would forever refer to it that way. Then again, I can’t stand being too warm, but the red’s so sophisticated. No, I’ll wear the navy.

  It was almost noon when Rita and Ruth Ann glanced up at what the young mother considered to be the prettiest store window she had ever seen on Newbury Street.

  Suspended in the center of the oversized bay—giving it the look of an enormous work of art—was a harvest-gold tablecloth, bordered with pumpkins, curly vines, acorns, and autumn leaves. A walnut sideboard featured a folded damask tablecloth on the diagonal, topped with pewter candlesticks and three hurricane lamps, each with fall-colored tapers. A variety of small gifts were artfully arranged in front of them, while a few decorative pillows were on point at the foot of the piece.

  Directly opposite, an antique breakfront with scalloped carving was lavishly filled with French faience, ivory-colored dishes; cups dangled from top shelf hooks, and saucers beneath them were propped against the backboard, as were dinner plates on the next shelf down. A bounty of gourds filled a cornucopia at one end of the buffet top, while fanned white and ivory napkins spilled out of drawers and stacks of coordinating linens filled the open shelves below.