The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Inside the matchbook cover, something was written in a fancy hand. Rita wasn’t surprised. Figures. He’d never take up with someone ordinary.

  Her closer inspection revealed a street address and telephone number, Commonwealth 6-2132, which she phoned right away, and a velvet-voiced woman with decidedly eloquent diction answered, “Hello, hello … Is somebody there? Hello.”

  Rita noted soft music in the background, and her mind’s eye ran away with the image of a posh apartment or house, the lady of such wearing a frothy dressing gown. But she immediately banished it. You’ve seen one too many movies, kiddo. Who cares where she lives and what she’s wearing? A tramp is a tramp is a tramp.

  Paragon Park

  NANTASKET BEACH, MASS.

  Patten’s Restaurant

  Opposite City Hall Annex

  41 COURT STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  A short time later, Bob was on his way out the door to work when he asked Rita where his brown-bag lunch was. She leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded and smirked, “Why don’t you ‘grab a bite,’ as you like to say, at Patten’s Restaurant. I’m sure you’ll find something there to your liking.”

  “Jesus, Rita, I can’t be late. Where’s my lunch?”

  He brushed past her, headed for the kitchen.

  She caught him by the sleeve. “Forget something?” Rita opened her hand to reveal the matchbook. “Or maybe you’ll order a new dish. Variety is the spice of life. Wouldn’t you say so, Bob?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Damn, what a slipup!

  Not up for his dramatics like the last time, that was as far as she took it.

  It was only two months ago when Rita stated the obvious. “You walk in our home late from work, smelling of Dentyne Gum, liquor, and another woman.”

  Bob vehemently denied any wrongdoing, but after she threatened to leave him, “I’ve got brothers and sisters who’ll help me,” he came clean, begged her not to tell them, apologized profusely, and proposed they return to Southie the next evening and pray together in Saint Augustine’s Church, where they were married. Once there, he cried and swore he’d never be unfaithful again, only to hold her hand tightly when Father Alphonse walked into the sanctuary and said, “We can go into my office now.”

  Rita was livid. God in heaven, he arranged a meeting without telling me.

  Father Alphonse, who well remembered teenage Rita’s care of aged parishioners and her mother’s daily Mass attendance from the old days, counseled, “Divorce, as you well know, is out of the question. And it’s your duty as good Catholics to forgive, make amends, and live in holy matrimony.”

  She noticed these words seemed to be directed at her alone. Where does Bob’s infidelity come in? And questioned in her heart what should have been said out loud. Did he tell Father Alphonse the truth? But Rita trusted her husband had finally learned his lesson, and left in relative peace, notwithstanding her bruised pride.

  Father Alphonse sadly knew of Bob’s unfaithfulness but felt it was Rita’s spiritual strength that would hold the marriage together, and he’d addressed her accordingly.

  First Holy Communion is the passage every Catholic parent looks forward to, the day their child receives the body of Christ. Rita wasn’t about to let Bob’s latest escapade spoil it, but she couldn’t stop speculating based on the telephone number’s prefix. Why would a woman on Beacon Hill take up with a cop from Southie?

  Then again, the week was completely wonderful; Ruth Ann’s special day was right around the corner. Rita’s sister-in-law, Marion, to date with no children of her own but who in time would be loving mother to six, arranged to come to their apartment the night before First Communion. “Johnny said he’d drive me over, and he and Bob will make themselves scarce. Let me guess, Doyle’s for a couple of pints.” She smiled, “those two.”

  “That’s fine with me. I don’t care if Bob drowns himself in pints.”

  “That’s pretty harsh. Care to tell me what’s behind it?”

  “No.” Rita thanked Marion for helping her with all the preparation for the next day. “You’re a Godsend.”

  They systematically set up for the celebration lunch and arranged what food they could ahead of time, on platters covered with waxed paper, and in bowls topped with appropriately sized saucers, and popped them all in the fridge. Glasses and hard liquor were lined up on the buffet, and in the refrigerator were beer, ginger ale, tonic water, and for the children, orangeade and milk, all to be brought out at the last minute with a bowl of ice. A milk-glass vase of blue hydrangeas from Marion’s garden in Dorchester was centered on the white-cloth-covered dining room table, alongside a layered, white, bakery cake with First Holy Communion and pink roses prettily piped across the top.

  Tall, svelte Marion, who grew up the oldest girl in a family of twelve children, had a gift for thinking ahead and helping with whatever needed to be done without a need for recognition or fanfare. She was also Rita’s closest friend.

  The younger children were bathed first and put to bed. Ruth Ann had her mother and auntie’s undivided attention as she sat in the claw-foot bathtub filled with bubbles. Her new Communion clothes had already been laid out with the greatest of care, on the temporarily white-sheet-covered living room couch, in the order of putting them on: underwear, slip, scapulars, socks, shoes, dress, and veil. “Marion,” Rita said, “I don’t want to take any chances some unseen soil would stain her pretty things.”

  Rita tucked a prayer book, child-sized white rosary, gloves, and the Chandler’s hankie into her daughter’s small white purse. Earlier, Marion had spied the tiny “Made in Ireland” gold sticker and popped it off. “An Irish linen hankie, no less, nice,” she said. “Bet you didn’t get this at Grant’s. It’s very pretty, Rita. Be sure to save it for her wedding day.”

  Practical, not to the point of not nice, but wisely practical, Marion Callanan King never understood her sister-in-law’s need for the best when “it’ll do” was fine with her. But before she could give it much thought, they were out the apartment door with Ruth Ann dressed in her pajamas, robe, and slippers.

  Mrs. O’Day on the first floor had a way of setting hair into perfect curls with ordinary rags, so downstairs mother, daughter, and auntie went for the last bit of preparation. Ginny O’Day was expecting them. “Is that the First Communion girl coming to my house?”

  Cordelia Parker had never set foot in a Catholic church and was sure if the dead could indeed turn over in their graves, today her very Protestant parents would be. Later this lovely May Saturday morning, she’d be sitting in a pew at Blessed Sacrament Church in Jamaica Plain, watching a little Irish girl receive her First Holy Communion.

  Blessed Sacrament Church

  JAMAICA PLAIN, MASS.

  And to borrow an expression she’d heard Rita Donnelly say once or twice in the course of conversation, God forgive me. I’m looking forward to it.

  Outside, in front of the towering, twin-columned, massive, domed, basilica-like edifice of Blessed Sacrament Church, mothers fluttered, cooed, preened, and flew about like maternal birds preparing their babies for first flight.

  Some smoothed any stray hairs on their offspring’s head with tongue-dampened fingers, and others pulled hankies out of well-supplied pocketbooks, employing the same wet method for spots on faces or clothing. They bobbed and stretched their feminine necks in search of family and friends, and in quick-winged movements, made sure everything was in place with their own ensembles, adjusting gloves, spring hats, coat sleeves, and corsages, checking wristwatches, and finally guiding their charges into the church in good time, with the help of hovering husbands. “So we can get a good seat.”

  Cordelia joined the gathering of working and middle-class people dressed in their spring best and was pleasantly struck by the colorful array of so many flower-adorned hats. She eagerly looked for Rita Donnelly and depended on her auburn hair as a marker, but there were others with the same color. The weather was breezy, and Cordelia pu
t a hand to her own unadorned, piped beige faille hat several times to secure it. Where could she be?

  “Cordelia, Cordelia, here we are,” Rita called to her new friend’s back. “Over here.”

  When she turned around, Bob couldn’t believe his eyes. Miss Parker?

  And neither could she. Officer Donnelly?

  Rita hugged the bewildered Brahmin. “Thank you for coming. Ruth Ann’s already inside.” With an open hand she indicated first her friend and then Bob. “Cordelia Parker, this is my husband, Robert Donnelly.”

  “Hello, Officer Donnelly. What a surprise.”

  “I’ll say.”

  He quickly explained, “Rita, my beat goes right by Miss Parker’s house.”

  She looked from one to the other. “You’re kidding. What a small world. I can’t believe this.”

  Cordelia responded, “And I’m pleased to report your husband keeps all safe and sound on Mount Vernon. Imagine, you’re Mrs. Officer Donnelly. I simply never put the two together. You’re Donnelly, he’s Donnelly. How lovely!”

  The eager young mother linked her arm through Cordelia’s and began walking. “I’d like to keep talking about this amazing coincidence, but I don’t want to miss seeing my daughter. Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  Bob had their jumping son by the hand, and Rita was carrying their youngest.

  “This is baby Catherine, and you missed Bobby the one time I took him to Chandler’s.”

  Cordelia thought what beautiful children, particularly the little one. Those curls and immense blue eyes. And she said so. “Beautiful!”

  Rita delicately dipped her fingers in the sculpted, alabaster angel, holy water font, blessed herself and did the same again for her two-year-old, who rubbed the moisture off with a dimpled hand. Bob followed Rita. The boy helped himself, and to a perplexed Cordelia, Rita said, “It’s not expected of you.”

  Several extended family members had saved seats for them, and Johnny King came rushing up the aisle to guide his sister and the others. “We’ve got the whole third row.” As they filed into the pew, he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Jesus, Bob, what’s the Brahmin babe doing here?”

  Nuns in attendance glared the greeting King, Donnelly, and McDonough clans to quickly sit down and be quiet, as only they could.

  Cordelia had no idea of the solemnity of the occasion and was impressed with the orderly demeanor of such young children. So this is the Catholic Church? How in the world do they get these youngsters to behave so well?

  The children sat up straight in the pews and looked directly ahead without making a sound. And then Cordelia saw one of the nuns sound a clicker, and she was impressed beyond all reason at its effectiveness.

  Click; the boys and girls were up, hands held together in front of their hearts, fingers up, thumbs crossed. Click; they filed out of the pews and lined up, boys on one side of the center aisle, girls on the other. Click; their feet began moving forward to the altar rail, where they knelt side-by-side, worshiping hands still before their hearts, and waited in turn.

  When the priest appeared before Ruth Ann, she did as she had practiced for weeks—eyes closed, mouth open, tongue out, receive the Holy Host, mouth closed—and minded Sister Catherine Aloysius’s careful instruction. “Don’t chew. Let it melt a bit, then swallow. This is, after all, children, the Body of Christ. We don’t want to be biting the Body of Christ.”

  That morning, Ruth Ann Donnelly had asked Jesus to, “please don’t get stuck,” because the O’Day sisters had scared the life out of her with stories of the Host sticking to the roof of your mouth and everyone knowing you were trying to bring Him down from there because of the funny faces you made, pushing and pulling with your tongue. Her prayer was mercifully answered; Jesus went straight to her heart.

  One question remained for Cordelia. Is this, in fact, the spiritual experience all these adults think it is? The children are so very young.

  Ruth Ann caught sight of her beaming mother and father, her sister and brother on either lap waving tiny waves, and held that vision for the rest of her life, recalling the day she made her First Holy Communion as her most cherished childhood memory.

  Within moments, her question was answered, as she observed the first-time Communicants returning to their seats, each precious face undeniably alight with joy and the presence of God. Something spiritual had indeed taken place. This was so different from all the damning speculations she’d heard from her own people through the years about Catholic ritual, rote prayer, and mysterious undertakings. The statues were unfamiliar, but then again, she really didn’t understand their significance and simply chose to look the other way. Much to Cordelia’s surprise, the Bible had been quoted several times throughout the service, and she found the entire experience extraordinarily reverent and worshipful, if not regal.

  The church was filled with flowers, and its magnificent marble altar shone, as did the priest’s elaborately embroidered white-and-gold vestments. Well-groomed altar boys, with fresh haircuts and shiny shoes, wore white cassocks trimmed with wide, red-banded cuffs and sizeable, floppy, red bows at the neckline. These were holy garments for a holy day.

  The row upon row of white-clad First Communion boys and girls seemed to Cordelia a field of celestial flowers, heaven sent, heaven bound, unspoiled, radiant, one with God, their guileless childhood faith a beacon of hope and renewal.

  CHAPTER 35

  I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.

  SONG OF SOLOMON 6:3

  ALL CORDELIA EVER WANTED WAS to love and be loved.

  Hopeful assumption had crumbled into the devastating loss of her longstanding wish to marry Norman Prescott.

  A fatal car accident prematurely robbed her of both parents.

  Her refusal to sell the family home, a blessed bastion and Cordelia’s only security, had severed all ties with her spendthrift brother, who merely saw it as cash flow.

  And then she was home alone, save former housekeeper Hilda, handyman Rolf, and two student boarders.

  How could she have possibly known “Room to Let” would open the door to love?

  Sundays were now Cordelia’s and David’s, pending his ever-increasing internship requirements at Tufts Medical Center. She went to Park Street Church in the morning while he studied, and later they sat down, Richard Malmgren included, to a simple midday dinner, usually a roast chicken, beef, or lamb popped into the oven before Cordelia left for services, followed by an outing of some sort, sans Richard. Last week it was a Swan Boat ride in the Public Garden, where they held hands like other sweethearts onboard, along with families, senior citizens, and tourists. When the boat operator informed everyone that swans mate for life, David squeezed Cordelia’s hand, and after a few seconds, she squeezed back.

  Swan Boats

  Boston Public Garden

  “Beneath this bridge and on their tours around the lake, pass the famous swan boats, the kiddies’ delight. The Garden is a park of 24 acres separated from the Common by Charles Street. It contains many beautiful statues, monuments and fountains and its floral displays are beautiful.” Postcard Copy

  Miss Parker and Mr. Miller were “progressing quite nicely,” Cordelia contentedly reported to Abby Chandler, who persistently tried to be in the know about every detail of their unlikely courtship. And because yesterday’s conversation had taken place in the linen store, Abby asked quietly, “How does one go about dating a man who lives under the same roof you do?” They’d already dealt with the fact that Cordelia had taken in boarders. “Oh, for goodness sake, Cappy, what does it matter?” said Abby. “Pooh-pooh to the person who’d take issue. Pooh-pooh and adieu!”

  Before reticent Cordelia could answer the question of living under the same roof—not that she had anything to hide, the courtship was hers and David’s; she’d tell what she wanted to tell—Abby shot off another question from her Gatling-gun list of inquiries. “Now, Cappy is he the one, or is this just a passing fancy?”

  “Honestly, Abby,
didn’t your mother teach you a thing about being too nosy?”

  “If she did, I don’t remember.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Perhaps I can answer my own question,” Abby Chandler said cheerfully through a haze of held back tears. “He is the one! I haven’t seen you this happy since—” she stopped herself from saying, “since Norman” and chose a better course. “In truth, dear friend, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you. Shall we begin collecting your trousseau? Planning those wedding showers?” Many of Cordelia’s friends were well aware of “the dark and handsome medical student,” as he was described by Abby, and hoped for the best: “At last, a wedding for our Cappy.”

  “Abby, you need to stop right there. We’re in no hurry.”

  The unrelenting store owner picked up a State Street Bank manila envelope containing the week’s receipts, meticulously prepared for deposit by Percy Clark, and whispered, “Tell me, do you plan on one day having a child or two?”

  Cordelia swiftly and good-naturedly handed Abby Chandler her black alligator pocketbook. “Out, Mrs. Butinski. Right now, out.”

  At one point in the chance courtship, heady but cautious on Cordelia’s side, eager but respectful on David’s, she abruptly pulled away, confused and conflicted about their deepening affection. What am I thinking? This is a man who rents a room from me. How can I continue to see a man who rents a room in my house? And how could I possibly have a future with a man whose background and religion are so entirely different from my own?

  In part, Cordelia’s second thoughts rode in on the most innocuous incident.

  From the very beginning, when David Miller first moved in, Cordelia happened to notice that he was never at home on Saturdays. Not that the genial lodger was hiding anything, what he did with his time was none of her landlady business, but when they came to know each other better and began spending time together, David brought it up in conversation. “We haven’t gone out on Saturday yet because … ” She was all ears.