The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [448]
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.
She thought of Jesus in Gethsemane, sweating blood for the sins of man, and of Jesus on the cross, wearing a crown of thorns, drinking vinegar and gall, his side pierced with a lance, Jesus, crucified, muttering to God, not my will, but Thy will be done. She lay her trust in Him. She would bear the burdens He sent her. If William must die, it was His will, and she would bear it.
Again she saw a vision of her William in a black cassock. She saw herself kneeling in St. Patrick’s while William celebrated his first mass. She saw herself giving a reception to friends and relatives, after his first night. Father William Lonigan smiling, meeting everyone, bestowing his blessings, she at his side, his mother. What a pride! What a blessing to her and her family!
Again she prayed.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee, and blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus .. .
And the fruit of her womb. Was there a mother in this world, suffering tonight as she was, she asked herself?
III
His face revealing an alcoholic stupor, Lonigan hiccupped. He laid his face on the kitchen table and cried. Paddy, buck up and be a man! He moved unsteadily to the stove and lit the gas under the coffee pot. He drew a cup and saucer from the cupboard and set them on the table.
Paddy, buck up and be a man!
He wheezed and wiped his perspiring face. He lowered his head on his left forearm, thinking that he might just rest a minute until the coffee boiled. He raised his head and stared at the calcimined ceiling. He looked at the clock on the window sill, above the table. A quarter to two.
The coffee slowly bubbled and commenced to boil.
He was acutely aware of the clock ticking in the quiet house. He wished that it would stop, that time would come to a dead halt. He had a nauseating headache, but he was beginning to sober up and the coffee would fix him just right.
Buck up, Paddy, and be a man! he told himself.
Tired, he laid his head again on the table, waiting for the coffee to boil.
“Goodness, Patrick, what’s this? Is the house on fire?” Mrs. Lonigan excitedly said as she rushed into the kitchen sniffing, seeing her husband asleep. She shook him.
“What, Mary? Oh, hello,” he said, looking at her dazed, his words seeming to float listlessly in the air as if there were nobody behind the utterance.
She rushed to the stove, and burned her hand removing the burning pot and dropping it in the sink. He gazed at her with the guilty expression of a boy while she sucked on her fingers. She went to him, and he stood up, clenching her in his arms.
“Father,” she moaned.
“Now, Mary, we got to be brave and strong, and face whatever the Lord visits upon us. I know it’s hard, Mary, but you and me, we’ve come through a lot, and we’ve still got one another,