The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  “I’m not aware of jumping at all. In fact you’re the one who moved. Not me. Nervous?”

  “I’ve had just about enough.” He grabbed her by the arm. “Enough.” Rita shook free from his grasp. “Let’s try this on for size, detective. You bought those tulips for someone else, and had the nerve to expose my children to your paramour.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Their voices were raised now. Bobby cracked the bedroom door open and listened for his name. The girls, playing house in the living room, grabbed their baby dolls and ran upstairs to their bedroom. Rita heard the scurrying footsteps and their obvious fear intensified her anger with Bob. “This is what I’m talking about. We have three kids—ten, nine, and four and a half. It’s going to be a long time before they’re out on their own … ”

  “Jesus, Rita, all of a sudden we’re talking ‘This Is Your Life?’”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Your life, Mr. Family Man, who thinks he can introduce my children to anyone he goddam pleases.”

  “It wasn’t like that. The kids and I changed our minds about the skating, bought the flowers in a nice floral shop for you, and to tell the truth, I ran into an old acquaintance. I’ll admit it wasn’t the best judgment to give her the flowers, but it was a spur of the moment kind of situation.”

  “Oh, that’s what we’re calling your trollops these days, ‘old acquaintance’? You really think I’m going to buy that story? ‘Ran into’ my foot. That’s it, Bob. I’m not putting up with this anymore.”

  “God Almighty, Rita. Will you please let me explain?”

  “No.” She pulled a chair out, sat down, lit one of his cigarettes, and exhaled. “I’m leaving you, Bob.”

  He rushed over, crouched down beside her and tried unsuccessfully to take her hand. “Come on honey, this has gone too far.”

  “You should have thought of that when you gave your ‘old acquaintance’ the flowers.” Rita picked an empty glass up from the table and threw it against a wall. “I don’t deserve this and neither do the kids. Their whole lives are going to be disrupted, and for what? So you can be the big shot for a while, enjoy another woman’s company whenever you please, and violate our wedding vows.”

  “Jesus, Rita, watch what you’re saying.” He gestured his head toward the stairway. “The kids.”

  “Oh, all of a sudden you’re concerned about the kids.”

  He cut her off. “Let’s go see Father Sweeney at Saint Gregory’s. He’ll help us sort this out.”

  “Not on your life. There’ll be no Father anybody this time. Whenever we go toward the church it’s no contest, and you know it.”

  “Rita, I didn’t prearrange anything with her. We just ran into each other. She thought the kids were great. Bobby said, ‘My mummy’s not feeling good,’ and that’s when she gave the flowers to him. Can I help it if I run into someone? Jesus, Rita, can I goddam help it if someone I used to know comes across my path? Are you going to hold me responsible for that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.” She took another drag and tapped the excess embers into the ashtray.

  “I gotta tell you, Rit. If we lived in California, there wouldn’t be anyone for me to run into. We’d get a whole new start. And I swear on my mother’s life nothing like this would ever happen again.”

  “Oh, now we’re back to California.” She put the cigarette down, shook her head, and began to cry.

  “Come on, Rit. You’ve blown this whole thing way out of proportion. But maybe it’s working out for the best. California’s the answer. What do you say, honey?” He tried to take her hand again, but she snapped it away. “Leave me alone, you louse.”

  “Fine. I will.” Bob rumbled down the basement steps, and soon the whir of the punching bag, suspended almost directly beneath Rita’s feet, could be heard loud and clear. She went to the stove, put the kettle on, and considered her situation … the rest of my life. Not since leaving her father’s home as a teenager had she felt so alone, so confused, so forsaken. I need to talk to someone who can help me make this decision. And it’s sure as hell not going to be a priest, even if it is that nice Father Sweeney. The whir of the punching bag intensified.

  Rita picked the cigarette up again, put it down, went to a small table at the end of the kitchen counter, rested her hand on the telephone receiver for a minute, took it off the hook, and dialed. Her stomach knotted tighter and tighter with each ring until the other party answered on the fifth. “Hello.”

  Rita’s voice cracked as she addressed the only person in the entire world she trusted completely.

  “Hello, Ro.”

  CHAPTER 45

  I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me.

  They have clung to me all my life.

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  “MOMENTS TO REMEMBER” WAS AT the top of the pop tune charts in 1955. And at the same time, moments to remember were taking place in the two-story, brick, three-bedroom, saltbox home of the Donnelly family. My family.

  “It’s fortunate spring came early this year,” my father said in response to the gas in our home being turned off at his request. The electricity and telephone would be on for one more day. It was March of 1955, the night before our family—parents Bob and Rita; brother, Bobby; sister, Catherine; and myself, Ruth Ann—would leave Boston for the move to California.

  All the possessions we would take to our new home three thousand miles away were ready for Allied Van Lines to pick them up the next morning. Large wooden tea crates my father acquired from the Salada Tea Company were packed with soft goods, dishes, pots, pans, silverware, linens, toys, photos, and books. Most of his extensive gun collection had recently been sold to the actor Darrin McGavin, who he met at the Union Oyster House in downtown Boston. The only furniture taken, other than a console television set, was Bobby’s fairly new, solid maple twin bed, nightstand, desk, and chair. It was the newness that saved it. California was a new beginning, and my father was incredibly excited about “starting a new life out there.” The rest of the furniture, including a small mahogany wall shelf which held my mother’s treasured collection of three Hummel figurines and three miniature Chinese porcelain horses, was given to family and friends. She kept the collectibles. And days before we left, my grandmother was delighted to be given two lamps that had topped the mahogany end tables on either side of our living room couch.

  Shortly before we left Boston, a door-to-door photographer took an after-school photo of my brother, sister and me sitting on the couch beneath that shelf. Sealed for all time in a tiny, plastic key-chain telescope and presently safe at home in my jewelry box.

  Daddy had phoned Grammy to say we’d be stopping by. “Do you need me to pick up anything? A quart of milk and a loaf of bread? Tell Buddy I’ll have something for him too.”

  Buddy, my father’s younger brother, whose keen intelligence belied his helpless physical state of crippling cerebral palsy, still lived with his mother at age thirty-one. Grammy tended to his every need. He was always clean-shaven with combed hair, a pressed sport shirt, and creased khakis. My mother never failed to greet his happy “H-h-h-hi, Riiiitaa!” with “Buddy, you are one spiffy fella.”

  Grammy’s small apartment was on the third floor of a seven-story building adjacent to the sea; two bedrooms, a living room, eat-in kitchen, one bathroom, and a hallway lined with family photographs, she called it “the Ethel Murphy McDonough Museum,” parodying one of Boston’s most famous and elite cultural attractions, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

  After my grandfather passed away, economic necessity drove Grammy and Buddy’s move to Columbia Point’s towers of public housing with “an ocean view, no less.”

  Our family usually took the elevator, although it was extremely slow. My sister, brother, and I raced one another to push the button, but this time our parents didn’t have the patience to wait, so all five of us swiftly climbed the three flights of steel-and-concrete stairs to Grammy’s home.


  “Oh, there they are!” she exclaimed at the door, her arms opened wide. “There’s my pet.” That’s what she called me, and then she kissed my forehead. “And my only grandson, you’re not too big to give your Grammy a kiss now, are you?”

  Bobby wrapped his arms around her, threw his head back, and laughed. “No.” He pursed his lips for a kiss.

  She pretended not to see Catherine, who was hiding behind my father. “Where’s the little girl? Did you lose her?”

  My baby sister repeated her darling charade for the umpteenth time, peeking out from behind Daddy’s trouser legs, she said, “Here I am, Grammy,” and ran into her waiting arms. All the while, Uncle Buddy was inside, laughing and calling out in his deliberate, palsied speech, “Is that the-the-the three blind mice I h-h-hear?”

  Each of my parents held one of the lamps, and Grammy asked, “What do you two have there?” My father teased, “Well, we’ve got your groceries and some beer for—”

  Buddy called from inside again, “I-I-I heard that Bob. G-g-get in here, w-w-will you?”

  As we entered the homey apartment, Mummy said, “Mother, you’ve admired these lamps for years. I want you to have them.”

  Grammy replied, “Are you sure, Rita? I wouldn’t want you to regret leaving them behind.”

  Uncle Buddy had two positions and stations: prone in his bed at night or seated in a soft armchair by day, where his spastic body writhed endlessly and slowly slid down until Grammy went behind the chair, put her hands beneath his armpits, and pulled him up again.

  “Bob doesn’t want to pay the freight, and there’s no room in the car. I don’t know how we’re going to take all that we have now. It’s good to know they’re going to someone who likes them as much as I do.” The whole time she was talking to my grandmother, my mother slowly swayed from side to side as she cradled the lamp in her arms like a baby.

  On our second to last morning in Boston, my parents’ friends Pat and Bill Connor brought their camping cots to our home. The canvas beds were set up between boxes, luggage, and furniture. A Scotch cooler filled with sandwiches, potato salad, cold drinks, and a can of evaporated milk was in the kitchen, along with two thermoses—hot tea and coffee—as well as a shallow box lined with a cheery cherry print dishtowel and stocked with hot and cold paper cups, plates and napkins, disposable spoons, knives and forks, potato chips, vanilla sandwich cookies, chocolate Devil Dogs and Twinkies, apples, and one china teacup and saucer.

  There was an air of excitement as relatives, neighbors and friends came by to wish our family well. Mrs. Maguire, the mother of four children whose family had the messiest and happiest house on our street, was convinced every family that went to California produced at least one movie star.

  “We’ll be lookin’ for all of ya’s in the movies. God knows baby Catherine has what it takes. Wait ’til they see her gorgeous little face.”

  Mr. Rosen, our across-the-street-neighbor, had his own take on California. “Bob, you’ll never have to shovel snow again. What’ll you do with all that spare time? Have lunch with Lucy and Ricky?”

  Bobby and I loved our weeks at Green Harbor’s Camp Cedar Crest for Catholic boys and girls, otherwise known as Mummy’s “Godsend,” where we went to daily Mass, were driven to the beach in open trucks lined with benches, had a canteen account for candy and ice cream, made lariats and key chains with multi-colored gimp, learned how to shoot a bow and arrow, played any number of games, sang camp songs day and night, pulled pranks, and reveled in the talent shows and giant bonfires.

  My father’s Uncle Harry Sweeney was slightly envious. “You kids have it made. I wish I’d moved to California. Had a chance, you know. Right after World War I. Could’ve stayed in San Diego, but your Aunt Peggy was waiting for me here. And God knows her father would have come out there with a shotgun if I didn’t marry her. I won’t go any further, but let’s just say our honeymoon wasn’t the first—”

  He stopped because my mother gave him “the look” that stopped everyone.

  My best friend, Janet O’Neil, wanted to know, “Ruth Ann, do you think you’ll see the Mouseketeers? Maybe you could be one. Lucky!”

  Janet jumped up on one of the tea crates and off again with her arms in the air, just as we’d done many times from her mother’s couch while watching the Mickey Mouse Club on TV. “Hi! I’m Janet!” I jumped up when she came down. “And I’m Ruth Ann!”

  My brother’s friend, Vincent Pasquali, brought him a packet of Red Sox bubble gum cards. “Hey, Bobby, do you think your parents will let you come back for Camp Cedar Crest next summer?”

  The two boys had made their First Communion together and they skipped school for the first time together too. When Mr. Pasquali asked, “So what made you think you could play hooky and get away with it?”

  Bobby answered, “Mr. Pasquali, I don’t even know how to ice-skate that good.” Both families and the two policemen who brought the boys home broke out in laughter.

  Mr. Walt Jennings stopped by early on his way home from Boston Police Headquarters, where he and my father had worked together as detectives.

  “Eddie Dugan planned on comin’, but there’s somethin’ brewin’ in Charlestown. They found two bodies behind a warehouse, and Captain Riley asked for him personally, mach schnell. Why a guy named Riley uses German to make his point is beyond me. Ya gotta admit Ed’s got some weird kind of radar when it comes to trackin’ down the worst of ’em. Anyway, think of us when you tip your glass.”

  He pulled a box of Four Roses whiskey from behind his back and handed it to my father. “Go maire sibh bhur saol nua.” May you enjoy your new life.

  Daddy put it next to the thermoses. “Thanks, Walt. I think I feel a thirst coming on. No, better save it for the road. I understand packaged goods stores are few and far between in the South. Thank Eddie for me too, will you?”

  Mr. Jennings asked, “Where’s Rita?”

  May the Sacred Heart of Jesus go before you to guide you, above, to watch over you, behind to encourage you and may His love and peace be with you now and forever. Amen.

  Dear Rita & Bob,

  God bless your new home. Love,

  Mary Alice & Walt Jennings

  “She’s in the other room trying to make sense of all this stuff.”

  Both men walked across the small entry and into the living room, where my mother was folding a blanket.

  “Walt, I didn’t know you were here. Thanks for coming by,” Mummy said as she put the blanket down on a cot and crossed the room with both of her hands reaching for his.

  “Mary Alice sends her love, Rita, and she asked me to give this to you.” He reached into his suit pocket, took out a small, thin, white-tissue-paper-wrapped package, handed it to my mother, and kissed her on the cheek. “Open it.”

  She pulled on the green ribbon bow and turned back the tissue to find three holy cards: the first, a portrait of Jesus, His Sacred Heart glowing, with a prayer on the back and a blessing written in Mary Alice’s perfect Palmer Method hand. I still have the card.

  The second portrayed Saint Rita and told her story of steadfast faith and awe-inspiring miracles. The last held a gold chain and pastel cloisonné medal of the patron saint of safe travel. Mr. Jennings requested, “Rita, turn it over.” “Saint Christopher protect us” was inscribed on the back.

  My mother smiled. “I kept meaning to buy a Saint Christopher for the trip but got sidetracked because there was so much to do. Please tell Mary Alice thank you and I’ll write soon.”

  My father asked, “Honey, why don’t you put it on right now?”

  “We don’t leave until tomorrow, Bob.”

  “The sooner the better, honey. It’ll look nice.”

  She gave Mr. Jennings a hug.

  We children liked Mr. Jennings because he knew we were there. My parents entertained frequently; there was the adult world, and the kid world, but he always took the time to ask us about school and say how much we’d grown. Now he took the time to say goodbye.
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br />   “Okay, you kids, obey your parents, and don’t forget to say your prayers.” He handed two one-dollar-bills to each of us. “This is for souvenirs,” he said as he squeezed my shoulder, shook Bobby’s hand, and tickled Catherine’s tummy. “God bless you kids. I gotta get going.” He headed for the door and stopped. “Better call headquarters and see if Ed left a message for me. Does your phone still work?”

  My father said, “Yes. It’s in the kitchen. Here let me show you.” He immediately returned to us. “Jesus, Rita, would it have killed you to put the medal on for Walt?” Mr. Jennings came back. “Yeah, just what I thought, Riley wants me there too. Do you mind if I use your phone again to call Mary Alice?”

  “Of course not, Walt. You should know you don’t have to ask.”

  When he left the room, my father turned to my mother. “Well?”

  “I’m not putting it on. Not yet.”

  Even at age ten I understood why—wearing the medal then would have made everything that was happening too real, too end of the line, too no turning back. It would all come soon enough.

  Mr. Jennings announced, “Okay, I’m off,” and slipped his hat on. “Hey, Bob, be sure to let us know how things are going out there. He shook my father’s hand and held his shoulder. “‘May the road rise up to meet you’ and all the rest. Bye, Donnelly family.”

  “Bye, Walt, and thanks for the gifts. You and Mary Alice will have to come out and see us.” My father’s invitation was more polite than realistic. They had five children, and Mrs. Jennings, like all of our mothers, was a homemaker. On Walt’s salary, a trip to California was as close as a trip to the moon.

  The sound of Mr. Jennings’s keys, closing of his car door, and pulling away resonated with me for years. God bless you kids.

  Our neighbor Mrs. Bernstein and my mother occasionally shared a cup of tea and rugelach, but more often they enjoyed a slice or two of Drake’s raisin pound cake. She arrived right after Mr. Jennings left. Mrs. Bernstein brought a “fresh one” in a new Tupperware container as a going-away gift. “I wonder, Rita, do they have Drake’s in California? If not, write me, and I’ll mail you one in double waxed paper. So, California, unbelievable that my neighbor should be moving to Hollywood.”