The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  My mother wasn’t effusive or ingratiating; she was a strict disciplinarian and nothing got past her. She wouldn’t tolerate backtalk (as if we’d dare), disobedience, or poor manners. Our bad behavior always had a consequence, usually a beating with a belt, which, as hard as it is to believe today, was the norm for that time and place.

  On the other hand, our good behavior seldom went unrewarded with coins for penny candy, a toy, book, or special privilege, such as going to a Saturday matinee at the Oriental Theater (with painted clouds on the ceiling) on Blue Hill Avenue in the adult-less company of a sibling or friend.

  She was like that; everything was black and white, good or bad, favor or sin. Thank God, because in time I would have to draw on that good “no nonsense” childhood training, like money out of a bank.

  CHAPTER 39

  LOS ANGELES AMBASSADOR HOTEL

  A Twenty-Two Acre Playground in the Heart of a Great City

  Offers endless opportunity for healthful recreation—tennis,

  golf, and the wonderful Lido with its Sun-Tan sand bathing

  beach and crystal clear plunge.

  POSTCARD COPY

  BOB’S TRIP TO CALIFORNIA BEGAN with one phone call.

  His mother’s only brother, William Murphy, passed through the Golden State as a young man when he was in the Navy during World War I, “met a cute little gal,” and made up his mind there and then California would be his future home. That was over thirty-five years ago. Recently, he’d had a massive heart attack and his “cute little gal” wife phoned Boston pleading that someone from the family please come to visit her husband before he passed away. “Bill keeps saying, ‘I need to see one of my own.’”

  After an emergency family meeting, the Murphy, Dailey, and McDonough relatives pooled their resources and asked Bob if he would be willing to go out there as the clan’s representative. They assured him all expenses would be covered.

  He didn’t have to think twice. “Of course I’ll go.”

  Rita gave him a glaring look clear across the Dailey’s cozy living room that needed no explanation. You better ask if it’s okay with me first, Bob Donnelly.

  “That is, if Rita doesn’t mind. Honey?”

  All eyes went in her direction. She was stuck and she knew it. Mother of God. California of all places. “Well, we certainly don’t want your uncle meeting his Maker without a good send off. Go.”

  Bob smiled. “Okay. I’ll go.”

  The family thanked him for giving up vacation days. And a few of them had something to say regarding, “When you get out to California.”

  Aunt Blanche Murphy, who lived up to her name with chalk-white skin and white hair, and who as a nurse wore a white uniform most of her days, advised, “Robert, stay in a hotel. Irene doesn’t need the trouble of having an out of town houseguest at a time like this. Even if he is a handsome charmer like yourself.”

  Bob chose the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, home of the famous Cocoanut Grove nightclub, a favorite rendezvous for Hollywood movie stars. He thought it ironic, we had a Cocoanut Grove in Boston too, until that god-awful fire.

  Uncle Frank Dailey, a patrolman with the Cambridge Police Department, was proud to say, after counting every dollar, “There wasn’t a stingy one in the bunch, Bob. You’ll have more than enough dough when you get out to California.”

  His wife, Aunt Jean Dailey, homemaker extraordinaire and mother of the only priest in the family, which made her royalty, chimed in, “Feel free to buy gifts for Rita and the kids with some of that money. It’s their sacrifice too.”

  Bob Donnelly didn’t for the life of him understand why they all thought it was such a damn sacrifice to go to California. Jesus, this is the chance of a lifetime.

  Uncle Walter, a kindly, quirky, middle-aged McDonough bachelor, who lived with and looked after his elderly mother and sat with Buddy if Mrs. Mac needed to go anyplace, offered a delicious nugget of allure, which more than fed Bob’s fantastic film-land dream. “Robert, you remember my cousin Mildred? Well, her sister, Ariel, lives somewhere in the Los Angeles area. I understand her husband has something to do with Hollywood filmmaking. Could be interesting. Maybe you’d like to give her a jingle when you’re out there. Do you want me to get her number from Mildred?”

  Bob couldn’t believe his luck. “No kidding. Sure, Walter, do that, and her address if it’s not too much trouble. What’s her name again?”

  “Ariel. I think it’s from Shakespeare. That branch of the family is pretty uppity.”

  After Bob checked into his well-appointed hotel room “with an excellent view of the Sun Club pool, sir,” the first phone call he made went to Ariel. “Yes, Bob Donnelly. Your cousin George McDonough married my mother, Ethel.”

  He liked the warm, friendly lilt in her voice, “The last time I remember, they were still calling you Bobby.” And she was delighted to hear a Bostonian accent again.

  “Actually, Ariel, I’m out here on family business.” He explained everything, she sympathized, and his curiosity got the best of him. “If you don’t mind my asking how in the world did you happen to move out here?”

  Ariel explained that as a young woman she’d visited California with her grandparents, who’d rented a bungalow in Pasadena. Their neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Petersen of Chicago and their son, Ed, who was trying to break into the movie business, were also “escaping bitter winter for the season.” Ariel and Ed fell madly in love. “We’ve lived happily ever after ever since.”

  “Sounds like it was meant to be.”

  “By the way, where are you staying, Bob?”

  “The Ambassador Hotel.” He loved the sound of it.

  “Wonderful! Oh, you must go to the Cocoanut Grove. I don’t know who’s playing currently, but it really doesn’t matter. We always have a fabulous time at the Grove.”

  “I definitely plan on popping my head in. Never hear the end of it if I didn’t. The family has requested I make an effort to spot at least one movie star.”

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll be successful. And Bob, we’ll have to get together and give you a Cook’s tour of Southern California before you go home.”

  “That’d be great. But I’ve got to check in with the Murphys first and see what I can do for my uncle.”

  Founded in the 19th century, the highly acclaimed British tour and travel agency, Thomas Cook established itself as the foremost leader of quality, dependable, well-thought-out tours. Their fame for outstanding service coined the term, “Cook’s tour” which promises a superior look about the place, be it a home or otherwise.

  William Murphy had just come home from San Pedro Hospital when Bob visited him and he found the skin-tanned-to-leather longshoreman in much better shape than anticipated. “God Almighty, Uncle William, I was given the impression you had one foot in the grave. You look damn good for a guy who’s on his way out.”

  As it happened, his uncle was well on the road to recovery. “Got a strong ticker after all,” he told Bob.

  Mrs. Murphy had jumped the gun, but Bob couldn’t say he was put out or even unhappy about her exaggeration, nor his uncle’s panic-stricken plea. Hell, it all worked out for the best as far as I’m concerned. I got a trip to California, and this melodramatic character gets to see ‘one of my own.’

  “Hey, Bobby, great to lay eyes on you, kid.”

  He handed his uncle a small, twine-tied box of baked goods. “I was told in no uncertain terms this couldn’t be crushed into a suitcase. It was to be ‘hand carried.’ You’re well-loved, Uncle William.”

  “Call me Bill if you don’t mind. Everyone out here does.”

  “Fair enough, Uncle Bill, and I go by Bob these days.” The two men enjoyed a good laugh.

  “So Bob, you carried this all the way cross-country? Helluva nice thing for you to do.” He sniffed the box. “I’d know that aroma anywhere. Et’s Irish soda bread. Don’t tell the Doc about this.” He reached up from where he was lying on a bright floral-print couch and shook Bob’s hand firmly. �
�Thanks a million. Now, have a seat and fill me in on everyone. Irene’s got something cookin’ on the stove. We’ll have lunch before long. You like chili con carne?”

  His hosts also served a tossed green salad with slices of what looked and tasted like Palmolive soap, “Mmm, what’s this called?” Bob inquired. “Avocado. Isn’t it delicious?” his uncle gleefully answered.

  After navigating the highways and byways of Southern California from San Pedro back to L.A., AAA Club map laid out on the front seat leading the way, Bob returned to his hotel. Think I’ll catch a few z’s. That night he enjoyed a much-anticipated visit and barbequed steak dinner with the Petersens, and the next day he phoned Rita to tell her all about his “long-lost relatives.”

  She drew a blank.

  “You remember Ariel? Uncle Walter suggested I look her up.”

  Rita got a knot in her stomach. The movie people.

  Ariel Petersen was full-figured and film star pretty with a short, wavy, dark reddish-brown hairdo and sparkling amber-brown eyes. She was classy, intelligent, almost old enough to be Bob’s mother and, as he described her, “full of life.” Ed, a good-looking, lean, fair-haired Scandinavian, personable but much quieter, was a successful lighting director, and along with their only child, a teenaged daughter, the couple lived in a grand Spanish Colonial home, which Bob referred to as “the Castle” because of its imposing turret. “Honey, they have a live-in Mexican housekeeper and a Jap gardener too. Apparently Ariel is always on the go. She’s a hot ticket. I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

  Bob let slip what Rita had already concluded. My God, he really thinks we’re moving out there. It made her angry but she coyly bided her time. “Oh, do they plan on visiting Boston soon?” Dream on, Mr. California. I’m not giving in to you moving us three thousand miles away, let alone pulling the kids out of Saint Gregory’s. Everything’s perfectly in place, Bob Donnelly, and by God it’s going to stay that way.

  He flew right past her question. “It’s beautiful out here, honey, and I wish you could see this hotel. There’s a huge swimming pool with, I don’t know, maybe fifty chaise lounges lined up all around it. And get this, they provide terrycloth robes and have cabanas just like in the movies. The lobby’s huge too, with swanky, light-colored, living room setups. Everything out here seems lighter, clothing, buildings, and houses—even the general outlook. There’s a barbershop too, and all kinds of classy stores, including a haberdashery and a really ritzy coffee shop. I ate there my first night, after I finally got Uncle Bill’s family on the phone. I’ll give you an update on his health in a minute.”

  She noted the change from William without comment.

  Ariel Petersen and Bob Donnelly were two peas in a pod. They both liked nice things, nice places, and being on the go. Ariel and her friend Edith offered to take the visiting Bostonian across the border to Tijuana, Mexico. “If we get an early start, we can go to the bullfights, get lunch, do some shopping, and have dinner too. Ever had Mexican food, Bob?”

  They did the Tijuana tour “in spades,” as Bob said on the way back to L.A., and the “three gay caballeros” laughed over how concerned he’d been to leave the country on such short notice, even after Ariel assured him, “It’s just like crossing the street. No passport required. You have nothing to worry about.”

  When “Roberto” got back to his room, he could hardly wait to talk with Rita. He looked at his watch. It’s nine o’clock here … midnight there! Damn. I’ll have to wait ’til morning. He put the receiver back on the hook. Think I’ll go downstairs, have a drink at the Palm Bar, and pop my head in the Cocoanut Grove. Or maybe I’ll just have that drink at ‘the Grove.’ He recalled Ariel’s easy reference to the nightclub. It all depends on the setup.

  Bob woke up ravenous, went for a quick swim, and took his breakfast of freshly squeezed California orange juice, bacon and eggs, English muffin, and a pot of hot coffee poolside before phoning home. Whoever would have expected a working stiff like me to be enjoying the life of Riley like this? Thank you, family. His gratitude practically sounded like a prayer as he lit his second cigarette, sat back, and enjoyed an alluring view of bathing beauties. Thank you, family; thank you, Uncle Bill; and thank you, Rita, for holding down the fort; and thank you, BPD for the time off; and thank you, Uncle Walter, for remembering Ariel; and thank you, Aunt Irene, for calling wolf.

  Poolside – Ambassador Hotel

  LOS ANGELES, CALIF.

  As he waited for the elevator up to his room, Bob Donnelly certainly looked the part of a carefree, prosperous tourist, wrapped in a terry robe, his wet hair slicked back, an L.A. Times newspaper folded under his arm. Two young women, a tan, long-legged blonde and stunning brunette, all decked out in high-heeled sandals, bare sundresses, and broad-brimmed sun hats, glanced agreeably in his direction—and he could have sworn the blonde winked as they walked by. He whistled a happy tune all the way up to his room and right away phoned Rita. She’ll get a kick out of hearing about who I saw at the Cocoanut Grove last night. He gladly recalled sultry actress Ava Gardner in her glittering, jet-black evening gown—quite a figure—and her crooner husband, “Old Blue Eyes” Frank Sinatra. Just like all good-looking guineas, dapper, smooth, and damn sure of himself.

  “And you’ll never guess what else, honey? I’ve been out of the country. Ariel and her friend Edith took me to Mexico yesterday.”

  “Mexico! You’re kidding! What was that like?”

  “First of all, I got some nice gifts for you and the girls.”

  “Ooooh, what?”

  He bought Rita a hand-tooled, tan leather shoulder bag, and for his daughters, peacock-blue felt jackets appliquéd with sombreros, burros, and flowers, blanket-stitched in sunny yellow yarn.

  Rita was pleased. “Perfect.”

  Bobby’s gift, “a real Roy Rogers” cowboy holster with two cap guns, would be purchased the next day at a toy store in one of Los Angeles’s “must see” tourist spots, the Farmer’s Market. There was a knock at Bob’s door, and Rita got a lump in her stomach. Mother of God, don’t tell me he’s—

  “Just a minute Rit, I’ll be right back.” She listened closely as Bob said, “I’ll be out of here within the hour. Can you come back later?” She could tell he wasn’t masquerading. It was the maid.

  “So are you ready for this, Rita? Ariel’s husband is a lighting director. Hell of a nice guy. And today we’re going to visit Paramount Studios.”

  “And Uncle ‘Bill’ too, I trust.”

  He caught her drift. “Jesus, Rita, give me a break. Of course I’m going to see him.”

  Ed Petersen had arranged for Bob and Ariel to visit the set he was currently working on, a western starring “man with the gray flannel hair,” actor Jeff Chandler. He also arranged for them to meet stars Virginia Mayo and Ward Bond, who were shooting different westerns on the same lot. Bob seized the day for all time, as he snapped photos of the entrance to Paramount Studios, the set, the stars, and bit actors too. Ariel took over where he left off, and with a single click and “smile everyone,” she recorded Bob, Ed, Ward, and Jeff seated at an umbrella-shaded table with the gorgeous Miss Mayo glancing over her shapely shoulder into the lens.

  When Bob phoned home that night, Rita expressed how much she and the children missed him. “I miss all of you too, honey. Just a sec.” He cradled the phone, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. “Still there?”

  “Waiting with bated breath.”

  “Are you sitting down? Because you’re never going to believe who I met today.”

  “Who? And of course I’m sitting down. What else would I be doing after taking care of three kids all day?” She kicked off her penny loafers, put both feet up on a kitchen chair, ankles crossed, took a puff of her own cigarette, and was whisked away to Hollywood on Bob’s magic carpet of enthusiasm and awe.

  “Honey, they were so friendly, and Virginia Mayo even asked if I had a picture of my family. She said I have a very pretty wife. Thanks for slipping that Gloucester snapshot
from last spring in my suitcase.”

  Bob’s last call home came on the heels of a fairly sleepless night. Dreams of East and West had collided in surreal vignettes of his BPD cronies being escorted by Frank Sinatra to front row tables at the Cocoanut Grove, where Bob was waiting with Miss Gardner on one arm and Rita on the other. Ariel was frantically handing out umbrellas, and when Bob looked down, everyone was wearing galoshes. His children were out of the picture.

  “Oh, and this morning Ariel’s going to come to the Murphys with me. Actually, she’s going to pick me up at the hotel. Her Cadillac convertible is a lot more exciting than my rental sedan. Uncle Bill is doing much better. It’s not his time to go after all. And this afternoon, Ariel and Edith are taking me to the races.”

  “Well, Bob, I hope this trip helped get all that California talk out of your system. You came, you saw, you conquered. Now it’s time to come home.”

  “I’d better get downstairs, honey. Be sure to give my love to the kids, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Much later that evening, when the house was at last quiet, all lights out but an overhead fixture, Rita sat alone at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a box of milk chocolate nonpareil candies, her Photoplay magazine pushed aside and rosary beads that had once belonged to her mother front and center but only partway out of the small, threadbare, packet that held them.

  All those years ago, Rosemary had taken the sacred beads from Norah’s casket just before the lid was closed, believing with all her heart in the power of a mother’s prayers. Hadn’t Norah prayed for a good husband for Rosemary? And didn’t Rita, more than she or Kay, need to hold the hope those tiny spiritual spheres came to represent? Prayer and sacred praises bring comfort and peace.

  Tonight, Rita Margaret took the green Connemara marble rosary in hand, kissed the crucifix, and before saying the series of dedicated prayers, counted her blessings; Saint Gregory’s was close to the top, just below Bob and her three beautiful children. The thought of losing all that she held dear terrified her. It had happened before.