The temperature dropped as the sun went down and a good deal of the crowd soon dispersed. David asked, “Is your offer for hot cocoa still good?”
“Of course it is.” What shall I do about the coat? Should I tell Rita? Will she feel embarrassed, or worse yet compelled to …
Boston Common Winter
“Well then, Miss Parker, what are we waiting for?”
“Indeed Mr. Miller, what are we waiting for?”
They were walking up Charles Street against a cold north wind when David stopped to put money in a Salvation Army bucket and the bell-ringing, uniformed Captain smiled for the lack of a clink. “Merry Christmas, sir!”
Cordelia tried to hold her shiver in check, but David saw it and immediately took his topcoat off and wrapped it over hers. “It’s freezing out here. We need to get you home.” When Cordelia protested, he pulled the collar up on his tweed jacket. “Doctor’s orders, my darling.” He kissed her cold nose and put his arm firmly around her shoulders. “Let’s hurry.”
Church bells sounded the hour as they turned onto Mount Vernon, and the familiar surround of stately brownstones, black, cast-iron fences, and Christmas décor of evergreens, red ribbons, and candles in the windows all looked brand new to Cordelia, as if she were seeing her beloved Beacon Hill for the very first time. And it was in that moment of hurried steps, loving embrace, laughter, and kisses that Cordelia Parker realized Providence had been with her all along. I never needed the red coat. I needed David, and here he is. Merry Christmas, Rita Donnelly. The coat is yours.
CHAPTER 43
Toyland. Toyland.
Little girl and boy land.
While you dwell within it,
You are ever happy then.
Childhood’s joy-land.
Mystic merry Toyland,
Once you pass its borders,
You can never return again.
“BABES IN TOYLAND”
GLENN MACDONOUGH & VICTOR HERBERT
TRADITIONALLY, THE DONNELLYS LAST STOP before visiting the manger again was to see live reindeer, also housed on the Common, behind temporary chain-linked fences painted green for the season. Bobby poked his fingers through the diamond-shaped openings in an attempt to pet the restless reindeer and would pull away just as Santa’s favorite animal advanced. All the while he’d glance at his on-looking sisters, snicker, and return to his folly.
“Come on, kids, let’s go!” meant the family was now headed for one last look at the Nativity scene. After dark was when it seemed most real; maybe because so many Christmas carols sang of the holy and silent night. Ruth Ann thought the baby Jesus, “wrapped in swaddling clothes,” never looked warm enough and wondered if His outstretched, bare arms were reaching for a jacket or maybe a little blanket.
That night as Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly stood before the Holy Family with their own—the older children happily balanced on the bottom rail of the fence surrounding the manger, leaning over as far as they could, Catherine gleefully sitting on her daddy’s shoulders—Rita Donnelly felt all was right with the world. Yes, California was still her husband’s dream. But God willing, he’ll wake up soon and see how good we have it here. She slipped her hand in his, and Bob spoke as if he’d read her thoughts. “Life’s pretty good, huh, honey?”
The last observance of the traditional day trip came next when the devout young mother instructed her children to pray to the Baby Jesus. “Tell Him you’ll be good from now on, thank you, and I love you.” They ended by saying the family’s customary goodbye. “Good night and God bless you.”
Jordan Marsh – December 1954
Standing there in the brisk night air, mother, father, sisters, and brother, side by side beneath cerulean sky and crescent moon, strolling carolers joyously singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “The First Noel,” “Adeste Fideles,” and “Joy to the World” surrounded by countless others who were equally delighted in the light of the season, was Christmas. Beautiful, downtown Boston Christmas.
Rita and Bob had no way of knowing—as their young family ventured through the city, marveled at the holiday windows and lights, shopped for gifts, lunched at the Adams House, visited Santa, sang along with carolers, and adored the Prince of Peace at home on the Common—that a cherished, sustaining, never-to-be-forgotten, childhood memory was in the making. O holy night, the stars are brightly shining … and the soul felt its worth.
CHAPTER 44
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,
that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection,
implored your help or sought your intercession, was left unaided.
“THE MEMORARE”
THE BALTIMORE CATECHISM
NO. 1
REV. E.M. DECK
“THAT’S IT, BOB. I’M NOT putting up with this anymore.”
“God Almighty, Rita. Will you please let me explain?”
The New Year, 1955, had started out well enough. Ike was in office, times were prosperous, and most people owned a car. Bob had recently gotten a raise and toyed with the idea of trading in his old black sedan for a new two-tone Chevy. Rita was thankful he hadn’t brought up moving out West once since Christmas morning when he’d handed her a gift box from Neal’s of California, a fashionable women’s clothing store at 19 Arlington Street, close to the Common. However, his next bid was just around the corner.
It was a freezing cold Monday night in early January. Rita and Bob were seated on the couch ready to watch their favorite TV show. Her penny loafers had been removed for the comfort of bobby socks alone, legs tucked under and to the side. His heavy laced cordovans were replaced with fleece-lined L. L. Bean moccasins, feet propped up on the coffee table and next to a divided, ceramic clover candy dish filled with pistachio nuts, nonpareil chocolates, and discarded shells. Bob drank a whiskey and ginger, while Rita sipped ginger ale.
They were holding hands, and the opening music of I Love Lucy heightened their anticipation, but Rita winced as soon as the new episode’s title appeared, “California Here We Come,” and she let go.
Bob slapped both hands on his knees, grinned, and cocked his head in her direction. “See, honey, even the Ricardos are going out there.”
“Oh, by all means, let’s pack our bags right away.” She reached for the candy. “You do realize this show is make-believe?”
“Beautiful, Rit, beautiful. What in God’s name do I have to do to convince you?”
“You’ll never convince me.”
Bob’s efforts were never dampened by Rita’s constant refusals, and he continued to shower his wife with small gifts from Neal’s of California, as if the luxury items would change her mind or at least open it to the possibility of moving out to “the West Coast,” one of several phrases he’d adopted from the Six Bridges people and the one she particularly disdained. “No, Bob. I like this coast.”
The Donnellys’ life, for the most part, continued to run like clockwork, and that’s how Rita liked it—predictable, peaceful, and parochial.
January was coming to an end and California tension was still in the air, but that didn’t rob the couple of enjoying life as it was and enjoying each other. Mrs. Mac was happy to babysit once in a while, which freed them to occasionally pursue getting a bite to eat and going to the movies. Last year’s favorite for Rita was Sabrina, with Audrey Hepburn. She adored the story of “poor girl makes good” and admired the pretty young star’s pert elegance. Innocent, and at the same time very sophisticated. Bob’s was On the Waterfront, starring Marlon Brando, whose character, a compromised boxer, missed his chance and sadly resented it. “I coulda’ had class! I coulda’ been a contender. I coulda’ been somebody.” Bob couldn’t help but think of California. I never want to be in that godforsaken boat.
Tonight, they were going to have Chinese food at a restaurant by Ashmont Station and catch the just released movie, Marty, at the Oriental Theater on Blue Hill Avenue. Rita wore her Neal’s of California outfit for the first time, a light tan, polishe
d cotton, straight skirt and sky-blue blouse with a snappy gold-bar pin at the collar.
Bob was extremely pleased. “You look terrific, honey.” He was also mistakenly encouraged and overly enthused. “I knew you’d like the California style. Too bad you have to cover it up, honey.” He could have stopped at that point but didn’t. “If we lived out there you wouldn’t need a coat. Or boots. Or gloves.”
Rita was tempted to change clothing and throw the entire outfit at him to the tune of: Bob Donnelly, if you don’t stop harping about California, you’re going to find yourself sleeping on the couch. Instead, weary of the struggle and thankful for a night out, she informed her children more forcefully than intended, “And I better not discover you kids got out of bed after Grammy tucked you in, or there’ll be hell to pay.” She grabbed Ruth Ann by the arm. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
Grammy, as usual, let her first grandchild, “my pet,” get up again after the others were asleep, and watch TV until they heard Bob’s car pull up and Ruth Ann made a run for her bed.
It was a Saturday morning in early February. Red construction paper hearts hung in every window of the Donnellys’ house and the good nuns of Saint Gregory’s had already given ample warning to their students regarding the holiday of love. “You’re to bring a valentine for every one of your classmates. No one’s to be left out.”
Rita and Bob each enjoyed a first cup of coffee while standing at the kitchen counter and looking out the window. Half-frozen, tramped over, dingy gray slush could be seen everywhere—in puddles, mounds, and patches. She observed, “How could something so beautiful turn into such dismal stuff?” and he instantly came back with, “You’d never see slush out West.”
As a rule, Bob did something with the kids on Saturday afternoons. Rita appreciated the break and being alone in a quiet house. In warmer weather, he took them to the Blue Hills for pony rides, Southie to visit his mother and Buddy, or out for an ice cream cone. Beach trips were always a whole-family endeavor.
In the winter, they mostly went sledding or ice-skating, and twice Bob surprised his children with a Disney movie at a theater downtown. They returned home with Cinderella and Pinocchio souvenir coloring books. “Mummy, guess where Daddy took us?”
Curiously, Bob showered earlier than usual that particular Saturday morning. He dressed nicer than usual and announced during breakfast, “I need to take advantage of the weekend and wrap up a few loose ends at headquarters.”
“Like what?” Rita asked. It better be good, pal, and will headquarters, in fact, see your handsome face?
“What? I have to itemize everything to get your okay? Police work, nothing you’d understand.”
“Oh, I understand all right.”
Rita cleared the table in a tizzy, tossed utensils, plates, and glasses in the sink just this side of breaking them, and told her husband in no uncertain terms, “You’ll gallivant around town. I know you, Bob. First it’ll be S. S. Pierce for crackers and cheeses. Then a cold one at the Union Oyster House, and you may even stop by Station 3 to ‘shoot the breeze.’”
“I said I had to take care of some things at headquarters. You know how hectic it gets during the week. I can get caught up this way.”
Beyond disappointment at losing the only time she ever had to herself, Rita also felt under the weather and definitely wasn’t up to taking care of all three children, all day. “Listen, Bob, I woke up with a headache and may be coming down with something. Please take the older kids with you. They can color or read while you’re ‘catching up.’”
“I don’t want to drag two kids into police headquarters.”
“And I wasn’t too crazy about being left all alone with three kids when you were having the time of your life out in California.” Blessed Mother of God, now I’ve done it. California.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He punched one hand into the other and yelled upstairs, “Ruth Ann and Bobby, get your coats. We’re going out. And make it snappy.”
Rita could hardly wait to crack open her latest book loan from Cordelia, East of Eden, by John Steinbeck, only to discover the good and evil tale took place in California, of all places. God in heaven!
When Bob and the children returned that night, beef stew was on the stove and the table was set. The open cellar door told him Rita was down there, and he called, “Supper smells delicious. I thought you said you didn’t feel good.”
She shouted back from the laundry room. “Nothing a strong cup of tea, good book, and napping child can’t cure. I’ll be right up.”
Bobby stood at the top of the stairs holding a gold-embossed, foil-and-white-ribbon-wrapped bouquet of red tulips and smiling from ear to ear. “Here, Mummy.”
“What in the world?” She rustled her son’s hair. “Thank you.” Rita took the flowers into the kitchen and was arranging them in a chipped blue ceramic pitcher—she hid the flaw with a leaf—when Bob came up beside her. “Am I out of the dog house now?”
“Yes,” she told him, and they kissed.
The following week found the couple pressed with additional responsibilities. Catherine somehow caught pneumonia and had to be hospitalized for three days. Buddy was having trouble with his vision and every morning woke up with less of it, requiring Bob to join other family members and help transport his brother and Mrs. Mac back and forth to Mass General. Detective Bob Donnelly’s testimony and extensive photographic evidence were required in three courtrooms that week. And Bobby, along with two of his pals, had set the woods ablaze down the street while attempting to bake potatoes over an open fire, and in the process, felled one tree and scorched two.
When Bob got home, he whipped his son with a belt until he thought he’d learned his lesson, as measured by the boy’s tears, which Bobby stubbornly held in until he couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Then he cried, “Please, Daddy, I won’t do it again. Please stop. Please, Daddy.”
The house was quiet after the beating, and Ruth Ann was scared to say or do anything for fear of getting the belt too. Catherine had never felt its sting and played carefree as ever with her dolls but was heard to scold, “You better be good, baby, or you’re gonna get a spankin’ too.” Bobby was confined to his room without any supper, and when Rita went upstairs later to check on him, she asked, “Do you understand that what you did was very wrong?”
“Yes, Mummy. But we were only trying to cook potatoes.”
Rita went to the dresser drawer and took out a pair of pajamas. She chose her son’s preferred pair, red print flannels with little boys on bucking broncos, ten gallon hats, pistols, lassoes, cattle, and sheriff’s badges. “Please put these on.” When he came closer, she winced at the welts on his arms.
“Someone could have been seriously hurt. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Are you going to do anything like that ever again?”
“No, Mummy.”
She sat on the side of the bed and called him to her with a double pat on the mattress. “You’re not a bad boy. Why, look what a nice thing you did last week when you brought me those flowers.”
Bobby wiped his tears away with a corner of the bedspread. “Daddy gave them to the nice lady, but she told me and Ruth Ann that we should give them to you, Mummy.”
“What nice lady?”
“Uh oh, Daddy said it was supposed to be a secret. Please don’t tell him.”
Rita went into the hallway. A nice lady. Holy Mother of God. She picked up the tray just outside Bobby’s door and brought back a hush-hush supper for her son, a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich, applesauce, and Oreo cookies, along with a glass of milk. “Be sure to brush your teeth when you’re through, and whatever you do, Bobby, don’t come out until morning. Good night and God bless you.” She closed the door behind her and headed downstairs.
Frog Pond on Boston Common
An old-fashioned swimming hole
in summer, and the city’s favorite
skating rink in winte
r.
“Bob.” Rita found her husband at the kitchen table, going over race results amidst a fog of exhaled smoke, and at the same time snubbing his cigarette butt out in an ashtray, but nonetheless mindful of her presence. “Did you call me, honey?” He looked up.
“Yes. Tell me, just what did you do downtown last Saturday?”
“Last Saturday? That was a week ago, Rit. What’s so important about it now?”
“I’m just curious.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, removed one and tapped the filter-less “smoke” on the table before lighting it.
“Let’s see … first there was headquarters and then the S. S. Pierce stop. The kids wanted to go ice-skating, but by the time we got to the Frog Pond it was getting too cold. Oh, and you’ll get a kick out of this. I forgot to tell you they both wanted to know where Jesus and His parents went? You have to admit it’s pretty strange to a kid, one minute the Holy Family’s there and the next … Anyway I said, ‘Home to heaven ’til next year,’ and that was the end of it.”
“Cute.” Rita remained standing and folded her arms. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about that day?”
“Ya, sure there is. This feels like a goddam interrogation. I’m through.”
“According to Bobby there was a ‘nice lady’ in the picture.”
Bob pushed away from the table so forcefully, the scraping chair sounded like the wail of a banshee. “So, there was a nice lady. Why do you always jump to the worst conclusion?”
The Red Coat Page 46