The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  This enlightening conversation took place over hot fudge sundaes, in a booth at Schrafft’s on Boylston Street. The dating couple had two obvious obsessions, each other and ice cream. They frequented Schrafft’s and Bailey’s Ice Cream Parlor, where ice cream was served in silver dishes, set on silver plates, for sundaes and Brigham’s for coffee frappes or vanilla ice cream cones with chocolate jimmies, and Howard Johnson’s for single scoops of maple walnut and peppermint stick. Once Cordelia’s smitten cohort learned she liked saltine crackers with ice cream, he made sure they were part of all future orders. David thoroughly enjoyed watching Cordelia eat, each bite savored, her mouth delicately dabbed now and then with a napkin. So unlike his own hurried intake, shaped both by war survival and getting through medical school where every minute counted.

  Temple Israel

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “Dedicated to the Brotherhood of Man.

  Consecrated to the Fatherhood of God.”

  David Aaron Miller had been attending Saturday services at Temple Israel, and Tuft’s schedule permitting, he never missed.

  “You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

  “I had no idea you were Jewish. Is Miller really a Jewish name?”

  “In my family it is, for generations. After Cohen and Levy, Miller is the most common Jewish surname in America.” He found her question amusing, and she found his grin, thankfully, forgiving. What a dim-witted thing for me to say. “I had no idea.”

  David continued, “My parents are devout, and to be perfectly honest, since boyhood, Judaism for me was only a matter of tradition: Temple, high holy days, Bar Mitzvah, kosher this, kosher that.” He grinned and gestured with his hands. “As well as some very delicious food, but nonetheless, all of it tradition. Enter World War II. I was drafted, trained to be a medic, and sent overseas. And in the hell of battle, believe it or not, I saw the hand of God at work.” For a split second there was a faraway look in the Army veteran’s eyes.

  “Mortally wounded soldiers suddenly took a turn for the better, and my own life was spared as we dodged the enemy to collect fallen soldiers. In the thick of it all, Cordelia, the prayers of my youth came back, and believe me, I was grateful for every sacred, solace-giving syllable. Finished my tour of duty and got home on a Friday just in time for Shabbos.”

  David wondered if Protestant Cordelia understood what that meant. “In case you don’t know, Shabbos is the Jewish Sabbath, sundown Friday to sundown Saturday.” He winked and resumed his chronicle. “And for the first time in two years, I sat at the dinner table with my family.” David envisioned his mother’s slight, poised hands as she lit the Shabbos candles and waved in the flame’s holiness with gentle circular gestures. A sacred glow filled the dining room with warmth and unity. “On Saturday I couldn’t get to Synagogue fast enough. And that’s how it’s been ever since.”

  For Army Combat Medic, David Miller, it was his parents’ parting blessing that resonated the most:

  “Y’va-reh-ch’cha, Adonai y’yish-m’reh-cha, Ya-eir Adonai pa-nav ei-leh-cha vi-chu-neh-ka. Yisa Adonai pa-nav ei-leh-cha v’ya-seim l’cha sha-lom.”

  “May God bless you and keep you. May God’s light shine upon you, and may God be gracious to you. May you feel God’s presence within you always, and may you find peace.”

  “Does it matter to you that I’m Jewish? My darling, shiksa.” David took a drink of water but never took his eyes off Cordelia.

  “No, of course not. My father used to say, ‘Show me an un-churched man, and I’ll show you a shallow fellow.’” He’s a Jew, and I’m a Gentile. How in the world would that work should our present fondness become a life-long commitment?

  Cordelia’s growing uncertainty soon resulted in avoidance and emotional distancing with cool answers to David’s warmhearted and eventually bewildered inquiries.

  “Cordelia, is something wrong?” he asked on a Sunday morning after she announced there would be no midday meal or afternoon outing this week.

  “Not a thing,” she answered unconvincingly. “Some old friends are in town, and if it weren’t for Abby’s reminder, I would have missed them completely.” The fact that the old friends were Abby’s parents, visiting from their home in Cohasset, as they did every Sunday afternoon, stretched the truth.

  “If you’ll please tell me what the problem is, I’ll do my best to correct it,” David stated that same night when the two of them were in fairly close proximity, he hanging his wet raincoat up on the hall tree, she unaware of his presence as she came downstairs carrying a vase of tired-looking lilacs.

  Her response was consistently standoffish. “Nothing needs correcting, I simply have a lot on my mind.” The recurring omission of his name in Cordelia’s curt answers finally said it all. She’s no longer interested. So be it.

  Hotel Bellevue

  21 BEACON STREET

  BEACON HILL, BOSTON, MASS.

  During this time, the house was inordinately quiet, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Richard Malmgren, who did his stoic Scandinavian best to break the ice. “Would either of you be interested in a game of Monopoly?” he asked, while at the same time presenting a well-used tin of homemade cookies, for their mutual enjoyment. “This is filled with my grandmother’s Swedish pepparkakor, kind of like a gingersnap, only thinner.” When he popped the lid off, a wonderfully pungent aroma filled the air. “But they’re much better. Want one?”

  “Another time, Rich, I have to hit the books. But I will take a few of those cookies.”

  Cordelia also declined. “Thank you, Richard. They smell delicious, but I’m meeting someone for dinner at Hotel Bellevue shortly and don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

  These days Miss Parker made her menu choices from the column of prices before entrée descriptions. That evening she decided on the affordable

  Fried Native Smelts with Bacon,

  Tartar Sauce, Allumette Potatoes - 75 cents

  And splurged on a dessert of Baked

  Apple with Cream - 25 cents

  Demitasse Coffee - 15 cents

  David pictured Cordelia sitting opposite a well-to-do banker type, buttoned up, reserved, and WASP, but stopped himself from going any further. He got the WASP right, but not the gender or occupation. Cordelia’s dinner companion was in fact a family friend from Martha’s Vineyard, who happened by Chandler’s Linen Shoppe one afternoon. “I’d love to catch up, dear,” the older woman told her. “Perhaps we could meet for lunch or dinner while I’m still in town.”

  It was exactly one week later, and close to midnight, when a sleepless Cordelia sat on the side of her twin bed in total darkness and ruminated. What to do about David? Before long, the bedroom became too chilly for pajamas alone, so she dashed to the closet and rummaged around for her warmest robe. Where in the world is it? I’m freezing to death. Cordelia hurriedly pushed hangers aside, one by one, and was caught off guard as she recalled a similar hunt for her cherished red coat.

  Memories rushed back as if it were yesterday: that magical snowy night with Norman Prescott’s arm around her, and the following spring when she’d discovered the red coat was gone. Blithely given away to a scrubwoman. Damn you, Norman. It would have been so easy, everything so perfectly compatible, family, friends, church. She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes and folded her arms. The Campbells’ Christmas party, and you were lost to me forever. A more recent memory came to mind as well, the day her heart’s wound deepened.

  Less than a year ago, Cordelia encountered Norman as she was coming out of the Paramount Cafe on Charles Street, after a quick breakfast of “the best pancakes in Boston.” He was pushing a baby carriage, and Patsy, now known as Ann, walked closely alongside him. “Why, Cordelia, what a nice surprise,” he said and politely pecked her on the cheek while his wife kindly added, “Cordelia Parker, it’s been entirely too long.”

  Their downy-haired daughter had a Brahmin name, Priscilla, and twinkling, Celtic-blue eyes. Running into the proud parents and their pretty progeny on
ly served as a painful reminder of what might have been.

  Shivering against her will, Cordelia welcomed the warmth of a white, lambswool, satin-trimmed robe, and wrapped both arms about her, as if to keep from falling apart. She sat down again, this time in a comfortable armchair, and released her enfolding grip to the support of one elbow on the chair, slipperless feet tucked beneath her for warmth. She wistfully stared out the window at a full moon that was frequently obscured with intermittent clouds.

  Thoughts of David crossed her mind like the coming attractions of a feature film: boy meets girl, polite companionship ensues, romance blossoms in the “Hub of the universe,” beautiful Boston, religion and class, clash and confusion, girl runs, boy pursues.

  Cordelia soon came to a final conclusion and silently spoke the phrase she’d come to use as an exclamation, but presently lamented in prayer. God help me. I’m in love with David Miller, and I may have driven him away. Crestfallen, she put her face in her hands and cried from the tip of her toes to the top of her being. What have I done?

  When she at last looked up, wiping tears away right and left, Cordelia was stunned to see beams of crystal-clear moonlight streaming through the windowpanes, as if it were the break of day. He’s the one!

  Less than twenty-four hours later, Miss Cordelia Parker, hands full, strained to turn her house key in the lock, at the same predictable day’s end hour, and pushed the door open to familiar scents of lemon-polished furniture, old rugs, fresh flowers, and a hint of cigarette smoke. She closed it again with a slight swing of her hip and was taken aback to see David Miller sitting on the entry settee, ashtray in hand, putting out a cigarette. He stood up at once. “Hello, Cordelia.”

  Tension hung in the air like billowing lines of laundry, and she knew something needed to be done before the brewing storm ruined everything, if it hadn’t already.

  “Hello, David,” she said in a pitch softer than her usual terse tone as of late.

  “Just biding time,” he explained. “A fellow from Tufts is picking me up in his car any minute now. Lucky break, he’s from New York City too, and we’re on our way home for a couple of days.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “Yes, it’s been a while.”

  Cordelia noted a small, timeworn valise at the foot of the spiral staircase and a black-and-white Fannie Farmer Candies bag next to it as she walked directly to the ancestral demilune table. Its nicked top held a few pieces of mail and a multicolored Chinese bowl where her family had forever tossed the keys to their Brahmin kingdom and chariots, as she did presently. Despite their pleasant exchange in passing, Cordelia felt a lump in her throat and turned back in the direction of her concern. “Oh David, I’ve been such a fool.”

  He abruptly put the ashtray aside. “I’d never call you a fool, Cordelia,” he said in that calm, sure manner of his. “Cool as a cucumber maybe, but never a fool.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.” There was a quiver in her voice. “Well, to be perfectly honest, David, I do know.” She clung to her pocketbook, gloves, an evening edition newspaper, and a small bag of groceries, as if they were a life raft. “Should we possibly have a future together, the differences in our backgrounds and religions seemed insurmountable.”

  “We could have worked it out.”

  “You’re using past tense.”

  “Yes, I am.” He remained maddeningly calm. “And you’re right. Our backgrounds are different, Cordelia.” He took a step toward her. “Let me tell you how differences of opinion, doubts, even heated anger, works in my family. We talk. We argue. We lay everything out on the table and make the best of it. In my opinion, you took everything off the table and closed the door. You didn’t give me a morsel of truth, not one. Do you have any idea …? Never mind. It’s not important now.”

  “Please forgive me, David.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. It was all a misunderstanding. Let’s just forget everything and start all over again.” His calm crescendoed to a crushing conclusion. “I rent a room in your house, and I’ll do my best to stay out of the way.” David looked at his watch and went to the window.

  Cordelia felt heat rise in her face with every pounding heartbeat. “Won’t you please say you’ll forgive me?”

  David turned to address her. “Didn’t you hear a word I said?” He crossed his arms like a cigar store Indian. “You’re fairly impossible, Cordelia.”

  The tears her pride had been holding back broke loose. “I know I am. But I can change, David.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his sports coat pocket. “Please don’t cry.”

  She awkwardly juggled the things in her hands and reached to take the handkerchief from him.

  “Let me,” he said and dabbed away her sadness.

  Cordelia welcomed his touch, even if it was through folds of linen, and she had barely articulated “thank you,” when a sounding horn announced the arrival of his ride.

  David ignored the double beeping, and they stood before each other, still as statues but breathing in tandem. Every breath inhaled and exhaled seemed to speak: what now? Cordelia was completely lost for words, but David knew exactly what he wanted to say, and his arms bridged the gap between them as he firmly took her by the shoulders. “Impossible or not, Cordelia, I love you. I’ve loved you since that very first day, when you came rushing down the street, beautiful and apologetic, full of pride and inconvenience.”

  “I love you too, David. I know that now.”

  He took the things she’d been clinging to and promptly put them behind her. “Now where were we?”

  “I think you were about to kiss me,” she said, and their parted lips met as they never had before. All kisses up to this point had been pecks, busses, and light brushes. But this was the kind of kiss each had wanted all along and dared not, should it be interpreted as too fast by either party, a concern no more as Cordelia and David passionately engaged in long, unreserved kisses, despite the sounding horn and following knock on the front door.

  Against every fiber of her madly-in-love desire, Cordelia politely pulled away. “Shouldn’t you be getting that?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Cordelia sent the two future doctors on their way, or so she thought, until David burst through the door all smiles. “One more kiss.” He squelched any additional doubts when he said, “Did I expect to fall in love with a Gentile? No. But we’ll work it out.” And off he went again with two last words. “Don’t worry.”

  That momentous night, in the softly lit foyer of number ninety-one, Mount Vernon Street, a space Cordelia had come into and gone away from since birth, another life passage began.

  David arrived at his parents’ home late that night, too late to tell them about Cordelia. It would have to wait.

  The next morning, his mother raised open hands as if seeking God’s help and cried, “Oy vey! Say it isn’t so,” and his father shouted, “A Gentile! A shiksa! A Jezebel!”

  David held his hand out like a traffic cop. “Stop right there, Pop. That’s the woman I’m in love with.”

  His father roared, “So, Mr. ‘Stop right there,’ what does ‘in love’ mean? Does it mean marriage? Is that what you’re trying to tell us, David? You intend to marry this shiksa?” Then he blamed his wife. “This is all your fault, Esther. You’re the one who encouraged him to be an independent thinker, you and your intellectual, bohemian, anarchist, Russian family.”

  Mrs. Miller raised her voice and delivered a high-pitched admonition. “So, you want he should be alone the rest of his life? No love, no children?”

  His father shouted louder with what he deemed a righteous retort. “I want he should settle down with a nice Jewish girl. That’s what I want, a nice Jewish girl and nice Jewish grandchildren.”

  David had anticipated every word of protest. “Pop, I’m not going to give her up. She is a nice girl. And God willing, she’ll have me.”

  His father looked at his mother in exasperation and back again at David. �
��You young people just take whatever the wind blows your way without any thought of consequence. Thank God your grandparents didn’t live to see this day.”

  He approached his wife, both hands moving in staccato sync with every word. “Esther, what would have happened if I’d presented such a situation to my father? You know what would have happened?” He turned again to his son. “He would have disowned me, and sat Shiva in the process.”

  David opened his arms and said, “Is that what you want to do, Pop, disown me?”

  Mr. Miller raised his hands as if to God. “I should have such courage.” He patted David’s cheek. “I see the love in your eyes. This shiksa, she must be something.” Hope filled the air for maybe thirty seconds, until he continued, “But is she worth you being the first in your family to marry such a person? Is she worth breaking your parents’ hearts?”

  Mrs. Miller, hands clasped before her, took a softer stand. “Speak for yourself. Mine isn’t broken, a little cracked maybe, but not broken. So, you’re going to let your son return to Boston with all of this condemnation on his head? Is that what you intend, Sam?”

  “No, of course not. What I intend is to change his mind before he leaves for Boston.”

  Sunday afternoon dinner held delicious food and lively reunion with his siblings and their families. The table never lacked for laughter or stimulating conversation, but was sans any mention of Cordelia. David wanted to settle things with his parents first. Mr. Miller mistakenly interpreted the lack of announcement as he’s come to his senses, and David considered his father’s good mood an indication of he’s getting used to the idea.

  By midafternoon, they all left with effusive goodbyes and promises to “visit you soon in Boston,” after which David sat in the living room with his parents, enjoying tea and another piece of babka cake, while waiting for his ride.