The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [423]
Mrs. Lonigan suddenly assumed a possessive attitude, as if to indicate that she was nearer to Studs than Catherine was, an attitude which wordlessly, but like the slash of a sword, told the girl that she was Studs’ mother, and Studs was hers now. Catherine held herself drawn tight, when she could have just screamed to the housetops that Studs was hers, that his child was in her womb, growing and living this very minute. She could have jumped to her feet and let the world know this, and she sat there, her control like a sealed lock over her tongue, lest she do that. And there was Mrs. Lonigan facing her, suddenly turned into a spectacle of heart-break and sorrow. And again, her hard crafty look. The woman was hurting Catherine so deeply that she knew, until her dying day, she would never forgive Mrs. Lonigan. She knew why. The woman sensed it, sensed that she was pregnant.
What could she say? What could she do? Tell her? She wanted to. She had to tell someone, and she feared that her own mother would not understand any more than Mrs. Lonigan would. And she did need someone to talk to now. Someone on whose shoulder she could lay her head and sob, cry her heart out, exhaust herself utterly in tears, until her eyes were so raw that she would enjoy their very chafing. But Mrs. Lonigan was not the one to whom she could talk. Oh, God, she told herself, what could she do?
And still only silence and suspicion between them, blame on the side of the older woman, a wound that was raw and festering into hate on the side of the girl, and between them a continuing silence that was oppressive. Every little sound, the irregular and strident breathing of Mrs. Lonigan, slight movements of the nurse in the sick room, the sounds of life and movement, of men walking and talking outside and of automobiles and playing children were all magnified, and each sound and echo was like a bullet driving terror into this room and this home. Both of them sat,. contained, lest they scream and shout. And still that persisting relentless look of Mrs. Lonigan. God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please help, Catherine prayed. She was afraid now even to stand up for fear that Mrs. Lonigan should catch the very slight swellings of her stomach and breasts.
Could she talk with the father? She was afraid to, and he was a man. The idea of telling them made her shudder, and the very thought of it made her feel muddy. Tell them of such a beautiful, intimate thing, so that they could scorn her, call her names, blame her, make it all dirty when it was so clean. She couldn’t do it. But could she sit here forever? If only the telephone would ring, if only someone would come, if only Mrs. Lonigan would be called away. The woman looked at Catherine more and more like a witch.
“The priest is coming. I had better prepare things for him,” Mrs. Lonigan said, suddenly arising.
“May I help?” Catherine said.
“I can do it myself, thank you,” Mrs. Lonigan said, curtly shaking her head.
VI
Weakness and lassitude flowed through Studs. He fixed his half-opened eyes on a burning candle which seemed to be high above him on a dresser. A tall, dark priest entered the room, and Studs saw him with wavering sight, heard him speak in a strange muttering which he could not understand.
“Pax huic domui.”
When he wanted to sleep, why didn’t they let him? Only to sleep, to close his eyes and sleep and sleep, and forget everything until he was rested and strong again, forget the parched dryness of his mouth, the feeling that there was something coated and dirty on his tongue, the aches that seemed to worm themselves through his bones, all this. His eyes closed, and he wanted to sleep, and thought what a joke it was on them all. They thought that he was going to die, and were having the priest for him when he wasn’t going to die at all. They thought that he was unconscious, and dying, and did not know all this. And here he was able to see and hear it all, the priest saying something to his mother.