The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [130]
Suddenly, he found that he had lapsed into dirty thoughts. He labored through an Act of Contrition, trying to make it a perfect one. A feeling of death was in him, and went from him to the gloomy church, and the autumn night without. He just couldn’t seem to be able to get through the commandments.
Suddenly, he just raced through them, estimating his sins, in violation of each commandment, and arose. He took a place in line, his back to the altar, before the left-hand door of Father Doneggan’s box. There were four ahead of him. He waited.
The door on the other side opened. Art Hahn, a tall, slim fellow, blond, several years older than Studs, emerged. A woman entered the box. Art smiled at Studs, as he passed him, down the aisle, and Studs pointed toward the exit door. Art nodded. Father Doneggan was quick in everything he did. Studs soon got inside the stale-smelling box. The slide opened, and he saw, dimly, the blond priest inside the wire screen. He confessed his sins, said the Act of Contrition, was absolved and received a penance of nine Our Fathers and nine Hail Marys.
Outside, Studs and Art lit cigarettes and went north along Indiana Avenue, the street along which Studs had, in his day, always come to and from school. The past came back into his thoughts. The day that Paulie had been licked by Johnny O’Brien. The day in winter that he had clipped a truck driver on the ear with a snowball and they had all been shagged. He felt as if tomorrow he would be going to communion with the boys’ sodality at the eight o’clock Mass. But what the hell!
Studs asked Art how he happened to be going to confession.
“I’d never think of playing football without receiving communion. You never know what’s going to happen to you in a prairie football game like that one we’ve got scheduled to-morrow. And I always play safe.”
“Yeah,” said Studs, feeling good that he wasn’t the only guy who’d felt that way.
“Why did you go—same reason?” asked Art.
“Oh, I just thought it was about time that I’d receive. And then I thought I’d do it for Paulie Haggerty.”
“Say, that reminds me, I ought to be offering up my communion for Paulie tomorrow too,” said Art.
Studs suddenly recalled that he had intended to make it a general confession for his whole life. And it had skipped his mind. He was afraid all over again, because of that slip.
He saw himself killed in the football game. But he was offering his communion up for Paulie and Paulie in Purgatory, if he was there, would pray for him to return.
Jesus, what the hell was happening to him, getting like he was.
He went down to the Elevated to get a Sunday-morning paper, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t stop at the poolroom. He did, and found Bill Donoghue there. He told Bill he’d gone to confession, and they played several games of straight pool. Studs won. Then they had coffee in fat Gus the Greek’s restaurant, between the Elevated and Prairie Avenue. They talked about the old days when they were kids at St. Patrick’s. Studs had a good Saturday night, and got home about a quarter to twelve. He told his old man that he should tell his mother not to get him breakfast, he had gone to confession. Lonigan beamed.
VIII
Worry did not sit well upon a jolly, red, robust face like Mrs. Sheehan’s. But she had a premonition. Last night in a dream, she had seen her Arnold lying dead in a football uniform. Oh, if only sons would heed their mothers, there would be less trouble, fewer broken-hearted mothers in this world.