The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Saint Gregory’s School and its ornate, Romanesque Revival-styled, twin-towered church were straight up the street from the Walter Baker Chocolate Factory, an extensive industrial property with the Neponset River rushing through it, all located at Dorchester’s, Lower Mills.

  Saint Gregory’s Church

  DORCHESTER, MASS.

  An aroma of hot cocoa permeated the entire area, and Bobby Donnelly asked on his first day at the new school, “Mummy, is the Marshmallow Fluff factory here too?”

  Rita’s older children wore school uniforms, “a Godsend,” and they each carried a green, Saint Gregory’s-embossed schoolbag and a metal lunch box—red plaid for Ruth Ann and Hopalong Cassidy for Bobby.

  Weekdays were blessedly routine. Brother and sister were given a hot breakfast, even if it was cold cereal with warm milk, and when they left home never failed to say, “Goodbye and God bless you” to their mother and little sister. The siblings walked, ran, and skipped (through autumn leaves, snow drifts, or puddles, depending on the season) down the hill and caught a public bus that dropped them off by Saint Gregory’s. Sometimes, after school, they’d spend the nickel carfare on candy bars and run all the way home along Morton Street, where they’d often spy House Representative McCormick’s underwear hanging on the clothesline, point and giggle, arrive home late and get in trouble—but that didn’t stop them from doing it again.

  On designated days the boys and girls were asked to wear certain colors in honor of:

  The Blessed Mother – blue

  The Sacred Heart – red

  and so forth. Girls wore bow-tied ribbons in their hair and on their blouses, boys, appropriately colored ties, and if they came to school without one, the good Sisters had a ready collection of big, discarded funeral arrangement bows.

  On freezing days, Rita gave the Irish twins just enough money (tied in a hankie and entrusted to Ruth Ann’s care) so they could buy “a hot lunch” at the corner drugstore one block away from their cafeteria-less school and kitty-corner from the chocolate factory. A bell at the top of the drugstore door rang in the youngsters’ arrival. They’d gleefully slide across the slick, black-and-white octagon-tiled floor, up to a row of red vinyl covered stools at the soda fountain, where they’d sit and spin two times before taking off their coats, hats, and mittens.

  Both children felt grown up when ordering their own food, even if they were following Mummy’s instructions. Two cups of tomato soup, a shared grilled cheese sandwich, two chocolate Devil Dogs for dessert, two glasses of milk. “And heaven help you two if I discover you got Coca-Cola instead.” Neither of them ever once ordered the preferred cola drink because their mother always found out what they were up to. “God, in his infinite wisdom, has given every mother on earth eyes on the back of her head, and only He can see them.”

  Mrs. Rita Donnelly assured the Sisters of Notre Dame they had complete freedom to discipline her offspring “in whatever way you see fit, Sister.” She trusted the Brides of Christ.

  The children of Saint Greg’s learned how to be a devout Catholic, as well as duty and decorum, or else. Whatever the good Sister considered bad behavior was met with a call to the front of the classroom, “Put your hand out,” and a whack with a ruler. Or “You’re to stay after and sweep this room until every spec is off the floor,” or the worst consequence of all, “Take this note to your mother. We’ll be meeting at the Convent to discuss your unsatisfactory grades.” Or the meeting would address rude behavior, constant tardiness, endless daydreaming, apparent slovenliness, whatever perceived sign of poor character that needed parental attention, intervention, and punishment. Rita approved wholeheartedly.

  Not a day went by that the children weren’t positively reinforced as well. Exceptional kindness, service, generosity, winning a spelling bee, and various competitions were rewarded with a holy card or medal, and sometimes penny candy. There were school festivals: minstrel shows, Christmas parties, Valentine exchanges, spring picnics, and glorious Holy Day processions, such as the crowning of the Blessed Mother in May. These traditions were, to Rita’s thinking, joyous character builders.

  Just as the generation before them, girls and boys educated in the parochial schools of the Archdiocese of Boston prayed the Holy Rosary every morning. This generation, via a live broadcast over the crackling speaker in every classroom, was led by the esteemed Archbishop Richard J. Cushing. His chanting, powerful intonation kept the children’s attention, and his evident happiness kept their faith. Rita believed nothing would keep her children strong in life like the teachings they received in parochial school. The discipline of daily prayer and knowing the love of God will help get them through life’s ups and downs.

  Students were expected to attend Sunday Children’s Mass, where the Sisters took roll. If a child didn’t show up, in addition to “the black stain of a mortal sin on your soul,” there was hell to pay. Strict doctrine, “the Catholic church is the one true church,” and moral responsibility went hand in hand. “Keep all those poor, unfortunate Protestants in your prayers now, children.”

  Rita put Norah’s rosary beads in their proper place for safe keeping after carefully arranging them with the crucifix at the center. And although it was almost ten o’clock at night, she lit a flame under the kettle for one last cup of tea, glanced at her Photoplay magazine, and wondered if cover-girl starlet Debbie Reynolds liked living in California.

  CHAPTER 40

  That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me.

  But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck

  out of it, and think how different its course would have been.

  Pause you who read this, and think for a moment

  of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers,

  that would never have bound you, but for the formation

  of the first link on one memorable day.

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  CHARLES DICKENS

  A SUDDEN SNOWSTORM FELL ON THE city of Boston the day Bob was scheduled to return home from the land of sunshine.

  Uncle Frank Dailey, and his wife Aunt Jean Dailey, picked Rita up and drove her to the airport in their well-equipped Ford Fairlane, chains on the tires, a thermos of hot coffee, sandwiches, and cookies packed in a brown grocery bag on the back seat, ready to go “just in case.” They’d allowed more than enough time because of the inclement conditions, and the upbeat women talked every bit of the way, Frank too, teasing, “When I can get a damn word in edgewise!”

  Uncle Frank and Congressman “All Politics is local” Tip O’Neill, had been fast friends since boyhood. Their speech was so identical, if you closed your eyes when Uncle was speaking, Tip O’Neill, “hell of a nice fella,” was in the room.

  Rita loved these two and their frugal, caring ways. Mrs. Mac’s mother, “Great-Grammy,” lived with their family of five, and the middle-aged couple was well known for generous, fun-loving hospitality with, as always, enough food to feed an Army.

  Logan Airport was a jumble of last minute confusion as resounding announcements rattled off amended arrivals and departures one after another. “American Airline’s flight number 163, Los Angeles to Boston, will be further delayed due to weather conditions.” Air travel was still somewhat beyond the “average Joe’s” reach, and largely for lack of experience, was often subject to exaggerated safety concerns.

  Uncle Frank paced.

  Aunt Jean fretted. “I hope everything’s okay.”

  Rita looked worried, despite her hopeful, “He’ll be here before we know it.” Blessed Mother of God, let me be right.

  Thirty minutes later, the Douglas DC-7 came in for approach.

  Those on board could barely see the runway lights through the rugged weather, and when their pilot cautioned, “Prepare for landing,” Bob Donnelly felt trapped. No! I’m not going to live like this anymore, snow, sleet, the goddam cold! The only place I’m landing is California, and the sooner the better.

  As soon as
he appeared at the top of the airplane’s exit stairway, Rita put her hand to her heart. “There he is.” She kissed her in-law relatives and made a dash for the door.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dailey watched from the warmth inside the terminal as Rita walked quickly in her black, fur-topped ankle boots through swirling flurries, across the snow-dusted tarmac, into her husband’s arms. Uncle Frank said, “What a doll. They’ve had their days, but that’s a real love match if you ask me.”

  Bob’s aunt agreed. “Absolutely. And I bet he didn’t see one starlet in California who’s half as pretty as Rita is in that red coat.”

  The Dailey’s car slowly pulled up to 97 Standard Street, and the returning traveler noted every single light in the house was on. What are those kids up to? He couldn’t wait to give them their gifts. I hope Catherine’s still awake. More than anything Bob wanted to see his children. He had, after all, been gone a whole week, a whole continent away. The Daileys and Donnellys hurried to unload the car, and Bob imagined how much the kids would have loved playing in the Ambassador Hotel’s swimming pool, but the cold reality of his present circumstance interrupted the sunny scene. Wouldn’t you know there’d be damn snowman in front of the house.

  Hands full, Bob walked headfirst against the storm. The front door opened and a houseful of people shouted, “Welcome Home!” He juggled the packages under one arm, brushed the snow from his hair, stepped inside, and smiled broadly. “Whoa, what’s all this about?”

  His brother-in-law Timmy King quipped, “Whoa? Would that be western talk for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a surprise?” A gale of laughter followed.

  Rita asked, “Happy, honey?” and their children ran to him screeching, “Daddy’s home!”

  He bent down, circled them with his brawny arms, kissed all three, picked Catherine up, and took Rita’s hand. “Thanks, honey. This is really terrific.” Everyone wanted to hear all about California, particularly Hollywood, but Bob said, “Give me a minute, okay?” He reached for a package Frank carried in, told Ruth Ann and Bobby, “Follow me, kids,” and led the children upstairs.

  His daughters put the colorful Mexican jackets on right away. “Thank you, Daddy!” He held both girls up in front of the mirror over Rita’s dresser. Catherine said, “Mine has a donkey,” and she petted the felt appliqué. Bobby wore the Roy Rogers holster slung low on his hips, and Bob’s apt adjustment was met with, “Please, Daddy? This is how all the cowboys on TV wear theirs.” They went downstairs again with an authentic cowboy leading the way, and Bob proudly paraded his children around the party. “Yeah, can you believe it? Mexico.”

  By the time they marched into the busy kitchen, another treasure from Bob’s trip was in use. The white, red-bordered, souvenir tablecloth featured a colorfully illustrated map with the ocean, boats, waves and surfboards, missions, a plethora of palm trees, snow-capped mountains, cactus-filled deserts, flowers, grapes, and oranges. A double-reeled motion picture camera marked Hollywood, while a big, smiling, bright yellow sun shone over the entire state with one eye closed in an exaggerated wink. California was on the table.

  Throughout the lively evening, one guest after another said or asked the same things.

  “So you see any movie stars, Bob?”

  “Heard you found a rich relative, that so?”

  “You’re lookin’ good, got a little sun out there, Bobby.”

  “Ya know, I had a friend who did basic training in San Diego, and after the war he packed his gear and bid Boston goodbye. You’re not thinkin’ a movin’ to California now, are you, Robert?”

  Bob Donnelly’s mother stood at the kitchen sink rinsing party prep dishes and all she wanted to know was, “How’s my brother getting along?”

  Bob snitched slices of salami and provolone from a platter destined for the buffet table. “Well, Mum, to tell you the truth, Uncle William’s pretty weak, but the doctor said he’s going to pull through this just fine.”

  Mrs. Mac gave her son a wet-handed, side-by-side hug. “Thanks for going out there. I’m so glad—” she was about to say why when a tearful woman, the wife of one of Bob’s fellow detectives from work, hurriedly brushed past them and made a beeline for the front door with her husband following close behind.

  “Come on, hon. I was just kidding.”

  Rita came right on their heels, and having been privy to the husband’s “idiocy,” filled the curious kitchen crowd in. “Evelyn Noonan went on and on about Shirley Doyle’s trim figure, and Ralph suggested to his much prettier-than-he-deserves wife, ‘Maybe she’ll share her secret with you, Myrna.’ This from a man who manages to look like a sack of potatoes no matter what he’s wearing. Not to mention the Groucho Marx stooping.”

  Bob took note of his own wife and thought she looked like a million bucks in her “I don’t remember seeing that outfit before” latest Filene’s Basement steal: a smart, gray wool, straight skirt, blouse, and coordinating beaded bolero sweater.

  Another detective laughed. “That’s what we call him downtown.” He mimicked the zany comedian and TV game show host, holding his signature cigar, wiggling his bushy brows, and prompting contestants to ‘Say the secret woid.’

  Rita turned to Bob. “Please see if they’re still outside and bring them back in.”

  Another wife humorously demanded, “But not before that louse apologizes.” Rita added with her dimpled smile, arms crossed, “On one knee.”

  The quarreling couple sat in their idling car, windows steamed up. Bob forged through the snowstorm, wearing a striped serape and sombrero he’d bought in Tijuana, and tapped on the car window.

  Coincidently, “Old Lady Connelly” as neighbors called the somewhat senile widow, was peeking out at the storm, spotted “a Mexican” and straight away phoned her son, thus informing his speculation, “It may be time to put my mother in a home.”

  Myrna rolled it down. “What do you want, Detective Donnelly?”

  “Hola, Señor, Señora. Do you know the way to Mexico, please?”

  For some inexplicable reason his “My name is Roberto” charade diffused the situation. “Everybody at the party, miiiss you verrry much, especially the pretty señora. But the other señoras, they say the Miiister, he must apologize … on one knee.”

  Ralph Sandowski bolted out of the car and did so. The freezing cold trio came rushing back inside to the catchy hit tune “Mambo Italiano” playing on the phonograph, sung by popular Irish American recording artist Rosemary Clooney and gaily accompanied by almost everyone at the party.

  Quartets, duos, and singles—Pilsner glass, cocktail glass, coffee cup, cigarette, fork, or spoon in hand—tapped to the music, while swishing skirts swayed along to the beat. Many guests danced, and some simply sat back and listened. Bob mamboed across the room to Rita, twirled her around and swooped in for a kiss. “Mambo Italiano.”

  The “hostess with the mostest” liked her house to be full like this with people, music, laughter, and good food. It was a long way from the troubles of her teens, and she thanked God for everything as she kept food and drinks fresh, collected plates and emptied ashtrays, with the dependable help of her sister-in-law, Marion, and her sister, Kay. Guests were seated, as she looked around, everywhere, at the kitchen table, in the stairway, on the floor around the coffee table, squeezed together on the couch, and easy chair, and arms of both, some leaning against a counter, wall, or door jamb. She overheard their neighbor Charles Price ask from his party perch on an arm of the couch, one foot firmly on the floor, the other crossed on his knee, “So, Bob, what’s the work situation like out there in California?”

  “Funny you should ask, Charlie,” he replied from his somewhat elevated position on one of three barstools brought up from the basement. “Just out of curiosity, I checked in with LAPD, and they said to be sure and get in touch when I’m ready. There’s a good chance they might have an opening.” Bob caught sight of Rita out of the corner of his eye and quickly added, “It goes without saying all of this was a matter of ‘what if’?”

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 41

  We wish you a merry Christmas, We wish you a merry Christmas

  We wish you a merry Christmas, And a Happy New Year!

  Good tidings we bring for you and your kin;

  We wish you a merry Christmas And a Happy New Year!

  “WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS”

  TRADITIONAL ENGLISH CAROL

  THEY ALMOST LOOKED REAL, AND in fact, the Donnelly children would pretend they were. Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus were spending the night on Boston Common, where they’d taken up residence for the season. Life-sized shepherds, wise men, angels, cow, donkey, and sheep were also nestled in the large, sheltered manger scene. Most of the time it was covered with snow, and the wooden railing that kept the Holy Family in and visitors out looked like frosted gingerbread. It was a sight to behold!

  Every December, the Donnelly family made a traditional Saturday pilgrimage to visit the manger once by day and again right after dark. In between there would be Christmas shopping, lunch at the Adams House Restaurant, a visit to Santa captured with a professional black-and-white photo, and “going to see the windows,” elaborate vignettes of animated figures set in captivating holiday scenes at downtown department stores.

  The first window held elves wearing colorful tights, blue jackets, and striped stocking caps as they hammered strings on pull-toys, painted wagons red, dotted rosy cheeks onto baby dolls, and wrapped gifts amidst unfurled rolls of gaily printed paper and spools of runaway ribbon.

  At the next one, Ruth Ann giggled at Mrs. Claus pulling a tray of goodies from the oven as a gingerbread boy ran for the door with a handful of cookies and a little gray mouse with sugar on his nose popped out of her apron pocket. The storybook kitchen held oversized candy canes, gumdrops, and licorice sticks amid giant, leaning to and fro, swirled lollypops. Twinkle-toed elves, their askance chef hats flopping about, packed glittering cookies in tiny tins while a comfy sheepdog lay under the worktable wagging his tail to, Up on the housetop, click, click, click. Down thru the chimney with good Saint Nick. Catherine’s mittened hands clapped at the make-believe scenes, and Bobby looked like an arcade game’s moving target as he ran back and forth, trying to decide which window he liked best. “Mummy, look!”