Studs Lonigan (137 page)

“Friend, here, take my sympathy,” McGuire said in tears.

“What was the trouble with your boy?” the bartender asked.

“Double pneumonia.”

“Tough. Here, friend, better have a drink on the house. It'll brace you up,” the bartender said, pushing a whisky toward Lonigan. “My brother, he had an attack of the same ailment, and while he pulled through, he's never been a well man since. I tell you, sometimes the death of our dear ones is the mercy of the Lord, and we must abide by His will.”

“God called him, and there is no gainsaying the will of the Almighty,” Lonigan said, shaking his woozy head. “But I'm an old man. Why couldn't it be me? I'm old, and I'd give my life if my boy could have been saved.”

“Many are called but few are chosen,” McGuire said, toppling, saved from striking his face on the bar by a stranger. “Chosen,” he muttered while the stranger leaned him against the bar.

“God's will is God's will,” Lonigan muttered.

Drinking, Lonigan spilled half his whisky on his coat and tie. His head turned like a merry-go-round, and he had a vision of his home, all of them waiting for him, the father. Mary, her mother's heart suffering a mother's agony. They would put Bill under the sod, and the crooked bankers would take his building. He was drunk and he did not want to go home and face it, and he felt like a traitor for not going home.

“Brace up, friend,” McGuire said, his feet sliding from under him as he pitched face foremost on the floor. “Brace up,” he repeated, groveling on the floor.

Lonigan puffed, lacking the strength to lift McGuire. The two young lads dragged him to his feet and dumped him in a chair.

“It's a tough old world,” the bartender said, meeting Lonigan's eyes in a glance of mutual sympathy. “Now I well remember the day my poor old mother passed away. She was ninety-two, and you know, after she died, they couldn't get her mouth closed. My sister, she was crying, and cutting up for a fright, because she was sad to see my poor old mother lying there so cold, and nobody able to close my mother's mouth. And my aunt who was ninety-four, when my sister told her how they couldn't get the mouth of my mother closed, she, that's my aunt, she said to my sister, ‘Well, you children never let her open it when she was alive. Let her open it in death as an act of charity.' And since that day I have never spoken to my aunt, and she's alive to this day. She's a hundred and two years old.”

“My mother is dead, years dead,” Lonigan muttered.

“That's one thing that's sure in this life. Everybody dies,” the young lad in the blue suit said.

“And 'tis soon we'll all be out of this sad vale of tears,” McGuire bemoaned.

“Maybe you should brace up now and go home, friend,” the bartender said.

“Yes. You know, I'm not a drinking man. I drink, yes, but not like this. Only today. . . . I'm a ruined man. I can't go on facing troubles without a few drinks to buck me up. I'm a painting contractor and a goddamn good one, but there are no contracts or jobs now, and I can't even collect what's owed to me. And they're taking my building away from me. They're taking the sweat of years of hard working. And now my son. . . . He's dead. Sir, I've been on the square all my life. There's nobody can say Paddy Lonigan isn't on the level. They ain't got no right to do this to me. An honest man all my life, and now, look at me.” His head swam. Through disordered images he saw his son's bed, the white sheets drawn over the stiff corpse. “My son, Bill, he was like a pal to me. I was going to leave him my money. He was going to carry on my business,” Lonigan commenced crying. “And he was marrying the finest girl, s' finest girl in God's world. In two weeks. And now he's dead. Gentlemen, do you know what that means?”

“I do, sir. Indeed I do. Only you must brace yourself up, and not flout the will of God. What happens is His will and works for the best,” the bartender said.

Lonigan leaned shabbily over the bar, crying, his facial muscles relaxed, suggesting an ugly approach to old age. McGuire, his head on a table, snored loudly. Several strangers entered, and a slick fellow, with a cropped mustache, laughed at Lonigan.

“Poor old bastard,” the lad in the blue suit said, and Lonigan caught the words through his drunken fog.

Nothing but a poor old bastard. Brace up. Buck up, Paddy boy! Holding onto the bar, he staggered to the two young fellows. He had to talk, and they knew, they felt sorry for him.

“Lads, I'm older than you. I'm older than you, and I've been through the mill. I'm a father with four kids, and they're the world to me and my old woman. Boys, I'm talking to you like a father. Take care of your health, lads. Guard it. My boy Bill didn't, and he's paid the penalty. Dead. . . . The dark angel hovered over my unhappy home like a thief in the night, and snatched him up. That's why I'm drunk. That's why I'm just a poor old bastard. I had to get drunk. I'm not a drinking man. I had to. When everything a man has falls from under him, he's got to do something.”

“Ought to put him out of his misery,” the fellow with the close-cropped mustache said low and superciliously to a companion.

“It's tough,” the lad in the blue suit said sympathetically.

“Dad, you better grab a cab and go home,” the lad in working clothes said.

“Boys, I can get home,” Lonigan said, looking at them with shrewd suspicion. “I can take care of myself. Paddy Lonigan has always taken care of himself. He's pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, and he'd still be on top but for fate. Fate and the international Jew bankers. Lads, my son died today. He's dead. He was a regular fellow, like you boys are, chip off the old block, a man's man, a fighter. All Lonigans are fighters, fighting hard, even when it's a losing battle,” he drooled.

“Come on, dad,” the fellow in working clothes said, taking his right arm, while Lonigan wiped tears away with his dirty left hand.

“You two boys make me think of my Bill,” he said as they supported him out of the saloon.

They put him in his Ford.

“Now where to?” the lad in working clothes asked, getting in the driver's seat.

Lonigan mumbled an address, sank back in his seat.

“I CAN'T help it. I'll never forgive her. I can't help it,” Mrs. Lonigan said.

“But mother!” Fran exclaimed.

“Mother, you know she loves Studs, and if he lives, she'll make him a very good wife,” Loretta persuaded.

“That day he went downtown in the rain. I asked him not to, but he went to find work, because of her and her condition. And now he lies at death's door.”

“But mother, it could have happened to anybody. She and William loved each other. You know you were young once,” Fran said.

“Why, my own daughter saying such a thing,” Mrs. Lonigan exclaimed, looking at Fran, outraged. “My own daughter. Well, I'll have you know that I went to your father's marriage bed a decent woman.”

“Oh, mother, times have changed a little, and Studs and Catherine were . . . well, they were going to be married,” Fran said.

“Sin is always sin,” the mother said with a wrenched pride, and the two sisters exchanged helpless glances. “Oh, God, that I should have a grandchild born in sin. Well, I never want to see it. I won't see it. I won't. It will never darken my door.”

“Mother, it will be William's child, and William is ours. Catherine is a decent girl. The only reason she did such a thing was because she loved him. You know, William is not blameless in this affair,” Fran said.

“You would say that about your poor brother while he lays at death's door?” the mother said, frowning at her oldest daughter.

“Oh, mother, now come. Please be sensible. We must be sensible, and we have to be fair to poor Catherine. When she left here, she was ready to break down, poor girl, and she's facing a hard future. She loves Bill, and he was going to be her husband. We owe it to him to be fair to her,” Loretta said.

“And well she might feel sorry. Well she might. Disgracing herself and her hard-working mother and father, and my poor unhappy family. Disgracing us when we must bear this cross of sorrow. Well might she regret.”

“Mother, you simply must be sensible,” Fran said with controlled exasperation.

“Well she might, with the curse of God on her. I will not raise my little finger to hurt her. She's in the hands of the Almighty and He has put His curse on her. The first time I met her, I could see that she was possessed by the devil. She never brought him good luck. He killed himself for her. There's no good luck in such a one and I could have told him so the minute I first set eyes on her.”

Fran left the parlor with a gesture of hopelessness. Loretta walked over to her mother, patted her head.

“Mother, now come and get yourself some rest.”

“Rest when my son is dying?” Mrs. Lonigan broke into tears. “And the day he went out in the rain, he looked so pale and tired. I could see that morning that the strength was no longer in him.”

“Mother, we must be brave,” Loretta said, gritting her teeth, and the mother sighed, as if unhearing.

“That as fine a boy as William should be dying for the likes of her. With his education and all we did for him, that he should go traipsing after her. She's not good enough for him. She's common. The chippy. Oh, I tell you the curse of God will be put on her, and she will never know a happy day.”

Mrs. Lonigan drew out a pair of black rosary beads and commenced mumbling the rosary. Returning to the parlor entrance, Fran signalled Loretta, who walked to the hall, unnoticed by her mother.

“Mother is awfully upset,” Loretta said.

“We must be kind to Catherine. Poor thing. She never would have let herself get into such a condition if she didn't love William.”

“I know it. Poor thing. Won't she do something to prevent it?”

“I tried to talk to her. She said that an abortion is murder,” Fran said.

“God couldn't want her to have the baby now.”

“I'll try again, but she is very set. Poor foolish thing,” Fran said, and Loretta nodded her head, dismayed.

“If she needs the money, Phil and Carroll could provide it. It will disgrace her and us. That people should know about William having a son after he is dead. It will be terrible. What will they say?” Loretta said.

“Of course, she is a little common,” Fran said, nervously tapping her foot on the floor. “William should have selected a girl more suited to the station in life where he belonged. But after all, she is his girl, and for his sake, at least, we've got to help her.”

“What can we do about mother? She is terribly upset, and dead set against Catherine. I can understand how mother feels, but still, it isn't fair. Oh, gee, Fran, why must this happen to our family?”

“Don't cry, darling. We'll both of us just have to see Catherine and try to talk some sense into her. It's still time enough for her to have something done. She could stay with you while she was resting, if necessary, or we could send her to a hospital.”

“Hospital will be best. Phil has put every cent into improving his place, but we could still manage to scrape together half of what it would cost.”

“Carroll has just lost a lot of money in stocks, but we could manage something also. And I'll see her tomorrow. We'll just have to drum some sense into her head.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And I'm going to tell dad to talk to mother. Oh, if he only hadn't come home drunk this way. But poor dad, he never would have done it if he wasn't just heart-broken. Poor dad.” Loretta wiped her eyes. “And we, everything is thrown on our shoulders. Everything. Oh, why must this happen to us?”

Loretta laid her head against her sister's shoulder, and cried.

Mrs. Lonigan remembered the day that her oldest son was born. She recalled him as a youngster in a sailor suit. And the day she had enrolled him in the first grade at Saint Patrick's school. The pride she had felt. He had been such a sweet boy, too, in that blue sailor suit, and he had held her hand so tightly, and when she had started to leave after talking to the sister, his eyes had grown big with tears, and he had run after her. She had swept him up in her arms and kissed him, her son. And then the night he had graduated from Saint Patrick's, looking so like a little man in his first suit of long trousers. The dream and the hope she had had that night of her boy going into the priesthood. If he had, he would not now be suffering on his death bed, and this awful tragedy would not be visiting her poor home. God showered grace and blessing on any home that gave a son anointed to His service.

And if he was a priest now, Father William Lonigan, what joy she would have known. She could die in peace, happy if her boy was a priest. This was a penalty from God, because William had ignored his vocation. God had called her son. She knew it. Because had she not so many times in her sleep seen God, and had not God spoken to her in dreams, told her that He had called William. And William had turned a deaf ear on Him. Whoever did that would never have luck on this earth, and that ill luck passed to his family.

If Patrick, poor man, had only taken her side, helped her make a priest out of William, he, neither, would be a broken man tonight. But he, too, had flouted God's wishes, encouraged William to set himself against his God, and now where were they? It was a punishment from the Throne of the Almighty that was being visited upon her and hers this very evening.

Her fingers moved from bead to bead, as she silently mumbled prayers. If God would only give her the strength to go on. She, too, she wanted to go home to Him. Wasn't she old and tired? Hadn't she worked her fingers to the bone all these years? And she was being smitten with God's punishment because her own had flouted Him. Oh, she wanted to go home to Him and rest forever in happiness. Oh, if God would take her and spare her son.