Studs Lonigan (97 page)

“Yes, fellows, we got to go about this the right way just as the master-of-ceremonies here says, because we're not out to get the Order, but only that drunken. . . .”

“This gentleman here is your spokesman. Mr. . . . ah . . . what, sir, is your name?”

“Eddie McCarthy.”

“Now let us get Mr. McCarthy's complete story.”

“Three cheers for Eddie McCarthy!” someone called, and a wave of cheering rolled over the hall.

“Now I got as far as to tell how this fellow was cockeyed and trying to insult us as well as injure the honor of the Order of Christopher. Now I said he insults a blind man and a priest. Am I right or wrong?” Their cries affirmed his statement. “All right. Well, there we was in there, insulted by a bum who seemed just itching to have his teeth slapped down his face!”

“Yeah, let any of you come outside and try it!” the sergeant-at-arms called sneeringly from the rear of the hall, causing the Judge to wince.

“Come on out, you palooka!” McCarthy called.

“Bring him out! Bring him out! Bring him out!” they cried, stirred.

Judge Gorman waved his skinny arm, pounded with his gavel, raised his squeaky voice, in vain. Candidates rushed behind the stands, but they were blocked by the unopening and unbending line of silent black hooded figures.

“Gentlemen, I am stunned! Stunned!”

“Come on out, you bum! Bring him out!”

“Gentlemen, I want to state that I believe every charge you have made, and that I am in full rapport with your righteous anger!”

“Three cheers for the master-of-ceremonies. For he's a jolly good fellow!” Eddie McCarthy shouted like a college cheer leader.

“Thank you, thank you, gentlemen,” the Judge said with feeling after the cheers had subsided. “I do not know what I can do to apologize for myself and for the Order of Christopher. From the bottom of my heart, I offer you my own, and its, profound apologies. And I hereby expel forever from this Order, Kevin Joyce, sergeant-at-arms of this Council, for betrayal of trust, conduct unbecoming an officer, setting a bad example, and appearing in an intoxicated condition at an important function!”

“Hurray!”

“But, gentlemen, we will need a sergeant-at-arms to assist me in the initiation ceremonies which I hope to begin shortly. I ask you if you will give your unanimous vote to Mr. McCarthy here as your sergeant-at-arms?”

“We want McCarthy!”

During the fresh burst of cheers, Judge Gorman signalled to the rear of the hall, and a red robe was brought to him. While he placed it on the shoulders of the new sergeant-at-arms, deafening cheers resounded. McCarthy extended his hand for quiet, with superb assurance.

“Thanks, fellows, I'll do my best to fulfill my job as sergeant-at-arms which you and the master-of-ceremonies have been so . . . so . . . so decent to entrust me with, and I'll do my best, and if that ain't enough, boot me out of it!”

Judge Gorman shook his hand in congratulations. McCarthy walked off the stand and was quickly mounted onto sturdy shoulders and carried along past the rows of camp chairs. Studs marched in the cheering group, which swept around the hall. If he hadn't been such a damn tongue-tied flop with shaking knees, he'd have gotten the honor McCarthy had. He'd be an officer in his Council of the Order of Christopher on his first day, known to the whole Council, an important figure. His noisy shouts were mixed with silent regrets. All his life he had waited for an opportunity like this one. And he'd flopped. His throat became irritated, and he cheered half-heartedly in a hoarse voice, marching behind those who carried McCarthy in triumph. He passed the rows of black hooded figures and arrived in the noisy group back by the stand. But still, hadn't he been the first to speak in defense of things that were right, even if McCarthy was the hero? He had joined in defending a priest, a blind man, a sick man. If, if he'd only been the first out of that room, so that he could have torn along on the heels of that louse Joyce and nailed him to the floor with a neat flying tackle. . . .

“Three cheers for Eddie McCarthy.”

And these might have been for Studs Lonigan.

“Mr. McCarthy,” Judge Gorman began with an air of helplessness, while McCarthy tried to act natural in his red robe, “we depend on you to uphold and enforce the dignity of our Order with courage. We expect that you will be of great assistance to us by acting as a sort of liaison man between us who are older members, and perhaps more set in our ways, and all these new members whom we are welcoming today, and whose initiation we will shortly begin, now that this unfortunate trouble has been cleared up.”

McCarthy gestured assuredly with a sliding motion of his hands, and a nod, causing a twinkle to come into the Judge's eyes.

“Now, gentlemen!” Judge Gorman began after the subsiding of another roar, his squeaking voice rising like a slightly rusty echo.

A revolver shot echoed like a loud explosion. The Judge wheeled around and looked to the rear. Momentarily, he stood like a statue. McCarthy followed the Judge with bewildered eyes. A current of tenseness seemed to run through the candidates. Studs closed his fists, leaned forward, hungry for more excitement, hoping that something had happened that would give him a chance to come forward more prominently than McCarthy. A fear of unknown danger cancelled his hopes.

“What was that? My God!” Judge Gorman exclaimed in a throbbing voice.

A man in rolled shirt-sleeves burst through the black-hooded ranks, rushed to the stand, spoke low and hurriedly to the Judge, and McCarthy, listening, revealed by his concerned brow that something serious had happened. The Judge's hand rose automatically to his forehead. He stumbled several feet backward as if he were on the verge of fainting. The candidates impulsively drew more tightly together.

“How frightful! Lock all the doors! Lock all the doors!” Judge Gorman cried out in a fretful voice, wiping his face with a handkerchief as he spoke.

Studs tried to get closer to the stand, but could make no progress through the closely pressed backs. Jesus, what had happened?

“Gentlemen, I am distressed. The sergeant-at-arms, Mr. Kevin Joyce, who was the provocateur of the regrettable occurrences here this afternoon, contrite and disgraced by his actions and expulsion from the Order of Christopher . . .hats just . . . shot himself.”

The words were like jolts of electricity, and there was scarcely a sound or a movement from the candidates. They waited, creatures of the words and commands of Judge Gorman. Studs thought that it was as exciting as a mystery movie. He'd never been present before when so many exciting things had happened one on top of the other. He had to do something to get in the thick of it. And that man might be dead. Dead! Jesus!

“Gentlemen, please pardon me if I am a bit upset, and please be patient a moment until I can collect myself, and think of what we can do in this crisis. Such a tragedy has never before occurred in the glorious history of our Order.”

Watching the judge sympathetically, Studs thought of how tough a spot he was in, how glad he was that he wasn't in the Judge's shoes. And it was a scandal that couldn't be kept out of the paper.

The Order and the Church, too, would get a black eye from this. If it had only not happened!

He glanced around him at the drawn, anxious, worried faces. His anger was suddenly roused at a fellow who was smiling superciliously. How could a guy smile like that? Hell, this was serious.

“Are the doors locked?” Judge Gorman asked, receiving assurance from various parts of the hall. “Good! Don't admit anyone! Don't call the police!” His eyes singled out the priest. “Father, will you go back immediately and administer to that poor unfortunate man!”

Studs watched the priest move solemnly forward and disappear behind the stands. He looked up at Gorman with growing respect at the way the Judge was handling this crisis.

“Has a doctor been called?”

“One's on the way here.”

“Here, sir, I'm a doctor,” a candidate called.

“Will you kindly go back there immediately?”

“This way, doctor.”

“I want to ask you gentlemen to take a solemn and serious oath never to divulge one word of what has happened here this afternoon to any outsider. I ask this of you in fraternal spirit for the good of our Order, which is bigger than any of us individually.”

“Yes, fellows, we got to show the master-of-ceremonies here that we're with him. Now, are we or aren't we? We are,” McCarthy said.

“Raise your right hands with me, please, gentlemen, and silently pronounce a vow of secrecy. . . . Thank you, thank you, gentlemen. This mustn't get into the newspapers, besmirching the name of the Order of Christopher.”

“Judge, Mr. Joyce has died,” a voice called from the rear.

“In the light of what has happened here this afternoon, I believe that it will be necessary to postpone this initiation until a less tragic time. But before I dismiss you, I must ask a guaranty from you of your secrecy and of your sincerity in joining the Order of Christopher, and I believe that under the very unusual circumstances of this afternoon I am fully justified in asking this of you in the name of the Order. The most convincing testimony of your spirit and attitude toward the Order of which I can think is that you prove yourself willing to shed your blood for the Order. I am going to ask one of you to volunteer for this act which will be accepted symbolically as that of the entire group.”

Studs fastened his eyes on Gorman's hawk-like nose. Since he had flopped once already, all he had done was cheer. And damn it, Studs Lonigan was one made to stand out and make others cheer for him and not always to do the cheering. A zeal for martyrdom, which he had not experienced so acutely since one Friday afternoon during his fourth-grade year at Saint Patrick's while Father Roney was talking on the early martyrs, swept through him. Watching the Judge, he knew that he had to volunteer. And he couldn't get out of his mind the thought that Joyce out there was dead, and that the police might come, and they would all be on the witness stand. They had to stand by the Order now, too.

“Gentlemen, let me repeat that this is very grave and serious, and I ask you to reflect before volunteering. I do not want this to be an impulsive act, no matter how noble or self-sacrificing. I want it to be an act that is the product of reflection. Think carefully! We are asking that one of you offer, as a sacrifice to the Order of Christopher, a pint of his blood in symbolic proof of your seriousness to accept all the responsibilities that will be incumbent upon you as members. This may result in serious, even fatal, consequences. I am fully conscious of the gravity of this request, and I am prompted to make it in the name of our Order only because of the tragic events of this afternoon.”

Studs turned pallid; his head became light. He saw himself dying as a result of this sacrifice. He wondered why this sacrifice of a pint of blood should be necessary, but his emotions swept this question out of his mind. He saw himself dying for the Order of Christopher, and the idea of himself becoming the martyred hero of this surprising afternoon gave him a sad thrill. He wanted to raise his hand. But he couldn't very well, in his condition, afford to lose that much blood. He asked himself where was his guts? Guts would carry him through it alive. Here was a chance to show the real stuff in him, such as he had never gotten in his whole life.

“This act must be absolutely voluntary. We want to know whether or not you are prepared to pay for the privileges of membership with something dearer to you than mere money!” Judge Gorman said gravely, in a rising voice.

He could see that many around him were thinking it over, and the fellow who breathed with his mouth open like a fly-trap, right near him, looked like he might bust a brain cell.

“Any volunteers?”

Wanting still to raise his hand, he felt that it might kill him. Nearby a hairy hand was raised, and Studs saw that it was a sandy-haired fellow with football shoulders, one who looked like he could well afford to lose a pint of blood. Yellow? Studs Lonigan yellow? Without will or thought, he shot up his right hand, and said, with a rush of breath:

“I will!”

They were all looking at him, just as he had wanted them to. Look at him! Envy him! But he was uneasy. He tried to act unconcerned. He had made his decision, too, and he was going through with it and face the music. But suppose he would be, like that poor bastard Joyce, carried out of here in a six-foot box! He seemed shrivelling up inside, losing his strength, and he kept telling himself that he must pull together.

“I congratulate you two gentlemen who have volunteered. You have proven to us that you are the type of young men we desire to have enrolled in our Order. But once again, permit me to offer a word of caution. Once the volunteer has been decided upon as the man who is going to shed a pint of his blood for the Order of Christopher, then the die will have been cast, the Rubicon will have been crossed. He will be expected to go through with his sacrifice, no matter what the cost and the dangers.”

More eyes on him. That fat fellow in front of him, who looked like he had the mumps, his cheeks were so fat, smiling at him as if he were a goof. Studs knew his kind. The wise aleck, always interested only in himself, never showing any spirit. He prided himself that he was not like that. And he was ready, too!

“Heck, I can't dope this out at all. What good does it do to have somebody give up a pint of good blood? If it was to save that poor bastard's life, now, or for some reason, it would be all right,” a middle-aged man beside Studs asked in whispers.