“Sylvia, we’re not moving to Hollywood. We’re moving to San Pedro, and I understand it’s not that close to Hollywood. Thank God.”
Mrs. Bernstein’s last words to my mother as she hugged and kissed her were, “Rita, be happy. For the sake of your children, be happy.”
By twilight, it was just the five of us. Everything my parents owned was in perfect order. The cots had been precisely lined up with pajamas across the foot of each one, suitcases beneath. Boxes were stacked just so, and Bobby’s disassembled bed was leaning against a wall by the rest of his furniture. The TV was where it had always been, front and center.
I remember Mummy sitting on a small box. She was wearing her standard day clothes, a skirt that came just below her knees, cotton blouse and wool cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, nylons and penny loafers, simple mother of pearl earrings, a wristwatch, and wedding rings. She sat with her knees together, pulled toward her for modesty; and wore her stylishly short hair tucked behind her ears with a wisp of bangs. She sat on that box and quietly stared out at nothing in particular. With pen in hand, Daddy was going over the maps he’d picked up at the Automobile Club for our trip. He had them spread out on boxes along with the AAA Travel Log and a half-dollar-sized pocket magnifying glass.
I was sitting on a cot rearranging clothes in my Ginny doll’s trunk, Bobby was zooming a Matchbox car across a windowsill, and Catherine was trying to weave a red yarn lace through a toy sewing card. She’d just said, “Ruth Ann, help me,” when Mummy began crying softly. Then her crying grew louder, and she grabbed the bodice of her blouse and tore it open, sobbing as buttons landed on the hardwood floor like a broken string of pearls. I’d never seen my mother unclothed and was shocked to see her bra.
My father pleaded, “Rita, the kids.”
She cried out, tears escaping from her eyes despite their being shut tight, just as her small hands were. “I don’t want to move to California. I don’t want to leave Boston. My house, my house, my beautiful house.”
Daddy pulled Mummy up and led her to the stairway that went to now bare bedrooms. “Jesus, Rita, what are you doing? It’s all set, and things are going to be so much better. You’re going to love it out there.”
In the emptiness of what was once our home, his promising words rang hollow. Bobby and I picked up the buttons. He handed me two and whispered, “Don’t lose them.” Catherine sat still and sucked her thumb.
“Please. Go upstairs and pull yourself together,” my father urged my mother. “I’ll find your suitcase and bring you something else to wear.”
“I can do it myself,” Mummy said with tears in her voice. She went to her cot and stooped down.
Daddy reached past her. “Let me.” He pulled the suitcase out and flipped it open. Her beautiful red coat was on top. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Rita!” Holy family names always meant trouble. “We agreed not to take this winter coat out to California.” He tossed it on the cot.
“I never said anything of the kind. You did.” Mummy pulled a blouse out.
My father closed the suitcase and pushed it underneath again. “Honey,” he said in a tone that defied the sweet endearment, “your sister left the coat here because she was moving to Arizona. You. Don’t. Need it. You’re never going to need it again.”
“Yes, I will, Bob!” Mummy picked the red coat up and held it close. “My Mother, Ro, Kay, and I are all wrapped up in this coat, and I’m not going anywhere without it. Not now. Not ever. Let alone California.”
“God Almighty, Rita, do you realize how ridiculous this is?”
“I’m taking the coat.” She reached in the right pocket and pulled the never used R-monogrammed hankie out just far enough to see it, as if checking for an important document.
My father said, “Mother of God,” under his breath. “Okay, fine, Rita. Keep the coat. Now let’s get you squared away.” He led her to the stairs again, looked back at the three of us children, and motioned with a downward palm that we should remain where we were.
Mummy asked for her cigarettes. He went across the room, opened her pocketbook, and removed a package of Phillip Morris and a lighter. We couldn’t see our mother, but we heard her voice. “Thank you,” she said, and her footsteps stopped halfway up, then began again.
My father stayed at the bottom of the stairs until she made it to the top. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Catherine, Bobby, and I stayed put until he said, “You kids can watch TV. Here let me plug it in. Where are the rabbit ears? You can sit on your coats on the floor. Turn them inside out so they don’t get soiled.”
He went straight to the kitchen, picked up the Four Roses box, took the bottle out, opened it, and poured whiskey into Mummy’s teacup. His feet landed heavily on the stairs, up, up, and then a knock on the bathroom door. “Rita, are you in there?”
Because the door squeaked we knew when our mother opened it, and we heard their hushed tones with her sobs in between. When my parents came downstairs, Mummy was neat as a pin and composed, and she soon served us sandwiches from the cooler, our last supper in the home she loved so much.
“Don’t eat yet kids. We need to pray first,” she said.
We sat on the edge of the cots, paper cups filled with soft drinks on the floor in front of us, paper napkins spread on our laps, paper plates on top of them, and prayed with our mother.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Bless us O Lord, for these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
That last day gave birth to two phrases every member of our family would use for the rest of their lives: “Back in Boston” and “After we moved to California.”
CHAPTER 46
Your Chevrolet Dealer Presents
Rx for Travel
See New Places
It’s the New Motoramic Chevrolet
More than a new car, a new concept of low-cost motoring,
revolutionary new ride. Only the new Chevrolet has new Glide
Ride front suspension that absorbs road shocks. And new show car
styling lets you travel proudly in the new Motoramic Chevrolet.
TV COMMERCIAL FOR THE NEW 1955 CHEVROLET
DADDY SAT PROUDLY BEHIND THE wheel of his brand new, two-toned, India Ivory and Shadow Gray, 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air, four-door sedan. He was eager to get going. Everything was in place; he’d be with the LAPD, stop by Paramount Studios, say hello to the Hollywood movie director, see if anything was lined up for him or us kids, and get established. He was the first one in the car, at Mummy’s insistence. “Your pacing is driving me crazy. I’ll take care of the kids.”
“Calm down, you three. It’s time to get in the car,” she insisted as my sister, brother, and I chased each other around the lone tree in front of our house. “We have a long trip ahead of us, and I don’t want any shenanigans. Please get in the car now!”
Bobby, Catherine, and I jumped in the back seat as ordered and rolled the window down so we could shout goodbye to our parents’ friends, Mr. and Mrs. Connor, who’d come to collect their cots, wait for Allied Van Lines to pick up our possessions, and hand over house keys to the next family who would call 97 Standard Street their home.
My parents had cleverly built a makeshift playroom in the back seat of the new car; they placed boxes and suitcases on the floor and tucked a large plaid bedspread in the seat cushion and brought it forward over the floor baggage. We were easily able to play board games, color, read, lie down and nap, or just sit back and enjoy the view, feet straight out in front of us.
I can still picture Mr. Connor shaking his head and grinning as he said to my parents, “Typical Donnellys. You all look like you just stepped out of a bandbox. It’s only a car ride for cryin’ out loud.”
My father laughed and answered, “I know. I know. Give me a break, pal. We’re getting ready for a three-thousand-mile trip of a lifetime here.”
My mother and Mrs. Connor were hugging, and then
Mummy got in the car and rolled her window down. “Bye, you two. Thanks for everything. And Pat, if you want those curtains in the rumpus room, you’re welcome to them. They weren’t part of the deal, and I know you’ve had your eye on them.”
Mrs. Connor winked, leaned in the window, kissed the side of Mummy’s head, and said, “I thought you’d never ask. Bye, Rita, take care now.”
My mother reached for her hand and didn’t let go until Mrs. Connor did. They both had tears in their eyes. Mrs. Connor looked in the back seat. “And you kids behave yourselves.” Then she tapped the car door, folded her arms the way women do in situations like that, and said, “Have a good trip, and be sure to let us know you got there safe and sound.”
And off we went, down Standard Street, onto Morton Street, up Gallivan Boulevard …
My mother had the red coat wrapped around her like a blanket and suggested, “Honey, let’s drive through the city one last time, okay?”
My father thought it was a great idea. Mummy had another reason for being in town but was biding her time.
We drove past Boston Police Station 3 on Joy Street, up and down a couple of more streets on Beacon Hill, and circled the Common, and who should my father see on Tremont but “Straight Ahead Sullivan,” a traffic cop he’d gone to the Police Academy with, who came by that name because of the only directions he ever gave to lost people. Daddy stopped his brand new car in the middle of the intersection.
“Hey, Officer Sullivan, which way to California?”
“Straight ahead, Bob, straight ahead.”
Daddy sang, “California here I come!” as we pulled away and the rest of us waved goodbye.
Mummy smiled at him and said, “Sorry to interrupt your sterling performance, Bob, but I want to stop at Filene’s. Ruth Ann needs a lightweight jacket for the trip.”
“Rita, we’re getting a late start as it is. Do we really have to do this?”
“Yes,” she answered, her eyes focused on the road ahead. “It won’t take that long.”
Minutes later my father pulled the car into a no parking zone on Washington Street, got out, opened my mother’s door, and entreated, “Please honey, for the love of God, don’t shop for anything else. We really need to get going.”
Bobby hopped out of the car, opened the backseat door for me, and glanced at my father for recognition.
My mother threw the red coat over her shoulders, grabbed me by the hand, and we dashed into Filene’s together for the very last time, into the store where so many of my outfits had been purchased: Easter and Christmas dresses, school uniforms, and summer clothes, purchases that my Grammy kiddingly referred to as “sunken treasure” because most were made in the bargain basement. But that day, Mummy took me straight upstairs on the main store’s escalator to the girl’s clothing department. Everything happened so quickly.
We immediately spotted a display of spring coats and jackets. My mother politely declined a saleslady’s help, and we didn’t go into a dressing room but directly to the closest mirror. Mummy held a few coats over her arm, handed them to me one by one, and then hung them on a nearby rack, where she’d pushed back a row of frilly Easter dresses to make room. After I’d tried on every coat, she asked, “Which one do you like best, Ruth Ann?”
“This one, Mummy.” I pointed to a light khaki, three-quarter length car coat with richly toned yellow, red, and green striped lining that matched material on the reverse side of the collar.
She agreed. “That’s my favorite too. Let’s try it on again.”
I stepped into the space before the three-way mirror and saw a trio of freckled, skinny ten-year-old girls with light auburn pigtails and bangs that were cut too short, wearing baby-blue, pearlized eye-glasses, tan corduroy pants, white Peter Pan collar blouses, and brown oxfords. But when I put on the stylish new car coat, I saw three Audrey Hepburns. Just the week before, I’d spied the famous movie star on the cover of one of my mother’s magazines, and Miss Hepburn was wearing a similar style jacket, the collar pulled up close to her pretty gamine face. “I love it, Mummy. Can I have this one?”
“Yes. It’s perfect.” She came closer, buttoned every button, tenderly tugging here and there. “It even has a little growing room.” My mother smiled but looked sad too. I can’t really explain other than to say, Mummy gave me a firm, lingering hug right in the middle of Filene’s on that last momentous day in our beloved Boston. I’ll never forget it.
She soon motioned to a saleslady, who was at our side within seconds. “We’ll take this one, please,” my mother said, pointing to the car coat, which I still had on. She paid for it with what she called “my just in case money” put aside in her wallet for unexpected expenses or opportunities. She kept the secret savings folded and tucked behind her Social Security card. I was surprised when Mummy asked, “Could you please clip the tags? My daughter will be wearing the coat out of the store.”
She handed the saleslady my navy-blue, wool school coat and said, “This early spring really caught us off guard.”
The saleslady pleasantly agreed. “Yes. Well, there’s nothing as unpredictable as New England weather. Would you like to take this winter coat out on a hanger, madam, or shall I put it in a bag?”
My mother closed her eyes for an instant, opened them, and slightly moved her head from side to side as she said, “Either. It really doesn’t matter. Thank you.”
Then my thirty-year-old mother faced me, straightened the shoulders of my new car coat, turned each cuff back precisely, so the striped lining would show, adjusted the collar with care, and pulled it up just like Audrey Hepburn’s, the movie star.
What fills the eye fills the heart.
IRISH PROVERB
EPILOGUE
AND THAT’S HOW THE RED coat came into this family. Its graceful design, an elegant blend of lambswool and crimson, was timeless and covered generations of King women with love.
When Rosemary wore the coat for the very first time, unimagined doors to a new life were opened through the heart of a smitten young man, who one day became her husband.
Kay applied for a job that some said was over her head, which she held a little higher when wearing the borrowed coat during an interview. She got the position.
And a few years later, when Rosemary and Kay’s younger sister, Rita, proudly wore the elegant coat into Boston for a Christmas outing with her family, in-town friend Cordelia Parker shockingly recognized the cherished garment as once being her own. The unlikely coincidence proved to be a long time coming, and a blessing in disguise.
The red coat traveled west with Rita when her husband moved their family to California in the 1950s. He never expected she’d need to wear it in the land of endless sunshine. But there was occasion, if only to put her mother’s legacy over her shoulders and feel the warmth of home or to stave off chilly winter nights in style.
In the tumultuous sixties, the red coat was a standout garment among tie-dyed shirts, mini-skirts, and bell-bottomed trousers. Rita’s eldest daughter, Ruth Ann, wore it as part of her 1969 bridal going away outfit, and her bridesmaids gave it a name, “the honeymoon coat.”
At the turn of the new century, Norah’s great-granddaughter Candace sported the red coat with the collar slightly turned up as she walked into a Hollywood film premier party, where admiring men and women inquired of the young television producer, “Where did you ever get that perfectly stunning vintage coat?” And when younger sister, Catherine, had her first child, she asked Candace to please bring the red coat to the baby’s christening. “I just want to have it over my shoulders.”
Catherine; her husband; her mother, Ruth Ann; her father; sister, Candace; and other family members stood reverently around the baptismal font, and unseen but very present in spirit were Norah, Rosemary, Kay, and Rita gazing over the devoted mother’s shoulder as Father O’Neill gently poured holy water on the new baby’s head and christened this first child of the next generation.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Spirit, I baptize thee, Grace.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU TO MY FRIENDS and family, who loved me through and encouraged every word: Tom Carlson, Candy Carlson, Katie and Joe Rider, Connie and Dave Hanson, Rita Atkinson, Joni Larson, Marie Carlson, Jane and Jim Hayden, Lorayne and Ken Carberry, Jeanne and Bob Peck, Gail and Peter Ochs, Anne Storm, Mary Hendricks, Toni Smith, Sandra Cornejo, Susan Gaffney, Rosemary O’Day, Teri Gundlach, Carol Timmons, Susan Yates, Matt Yates, Cheryl Perez, Diana Brown, and Karen Wilson.
Thank you to all of my dear cousins, who blessed the book with their whole-hearted enthusiasm and prayers.
Thank you to my amazing writer friends, without whom this book would never have happened. And who edited, proofed and blessed the work with their undaunted support and joy: Candice Davis-Williams, Mary Rakow, Dianne Russell, Marrie Stone, Susan Bernard, Hilary Katersky, and Michael Friedrich; also, Lynette Brasfield, Barbara DeMarco Barrett and Gail Roper.
Thank you to the city of Boston, home of my heart, and its citizens, who so generously assisted me in research with keen interest and “best to you” for the work; especially to Margaret Sullivan, Archivist for the Boston Police Department, Rick Winterson of South Boston Online, and to the Archdiocese of Boston.
Thank you to Jimmy MacCarthy of Ireland, who kindly granted me permission to quote lyrics from his heartfelt “Diamond Days” song.
Thank you to Kimberly Martin, Stephanie Anderson, and Jason Orr of Jera Publishing for skillfully moving the work forward.
To publisher Tony Lyons, thank you for believing in the The Red Coat – A Novel of Boston and for your enthusiastic invitation to join Skyhorse Publishing.
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