Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [170]
Andy Le Gare
Happy New Year
P.S. Dan and please tell Stutz Lonigan that Andy Le Gare wish him a Marry Xmas and a Happy New Year Tell hime I wanted a send him a card but Dan I couldn’t send him one wishing him a Marry Xmas and a Happy New Year when I never know his address because Dan I am always ready to say Stutz Lonigan is the bes whitest guy of the older guy who hang around that pool roome den of iniquieties and the only one of them guy who treat me decent when I was a kid and I like hime and want him to know that I wish hime a Marry Xmas and a Happy New Year and so Dan you please dont forget to tell hime that.
Chapter Twelve
I
“Now, Mary, compose yourself! No news is often good news,” Lonigan said feebly to his wife who sat with her bowed head lowered in tears.
“He’s not worth crying over, getting drunk and acting like a pig!”
“Frances, after all, Bill is your brother, and this is Christmas day,” Lonigan said in a conciliatory manner.
He stared out the window at the snow flurrying lightly through the sunless Christmas day. There was a catch in his throat; the whole family had received communion at five o’clock mass, except Bill.
“A curse must have been put on him,” the mother exclaimed between wails.
“Mother!” Lonigan muttered, unable to say any more. He arose and patted her head. She sobbed that he was her boy and she had suffered a mother’s agony bringing him into this world.
“Oh!”
“Don’t worry, nothing has happened to him except that he’s probably drunk as a pig!” Fran said; she strode nervously back and forth across the parlor.
Mrs. Lonigan drew some rosary beads out of her apron pocket, kissed the crucifix attached to them, blessed herself with it and commenced whispering her rosary.
“Well, maybe I had better notify the police, at that,” Lonigan said, continuing to remain slumped in his rocker.
“Dad, he has his name and address in his wallet. I’m sure that if anything serious happened to him, we’d have heard about it,” Loretta said.
Lonigan looked gratefully at his youngest daughter.
“I warned you all along to make him go to Loyola and get in with the right kind of fellows instead of with drunken poolroom bums,” Fran said; her father winced.
“God, what can we do? If people we know saw him, I’ll never again be able to set foot in St. Patrick’s church with my head up,” the mother mourned.
“And what will I do? Shamed and disgraced before Michael so that I couldn’t look him in the face last night. My whole evening was ruined. I was so disgraced that I could have wept,” Fran complained.
“Fran, please!” Loretta exclaimed.
They were thrown into silence as the key clicked in the front door.
“Now, folks, let me handle this!” the father said, showing a sudden sense of confidence and control.
The mother rushed to the hall as Studs was heard walking to the bathroom. She flung herself on him, and sobbed:
“My son! My son! My precious first-born baby son!”
“Mother!” Fran indignantly called from the parlor.
He heeded their summons and walked into the parlor, limping, with his clothes filthy, his face bloated, his eyes bloodshot.
“Well!” he exclaimed, with a slight shrug of the shoulder.
“Bill, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do on Christmas morning?” the father said accusingly.
“Yes, William, Merry Christmas!” Fran said sarcastically.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what did Satan do to my son!” the mother cried, throwing her arms dramatically over her head, looking vaguely at the ceiling with haggard, red eyes.
“Please, mother!” Loretta pleaded, showing presence of mind.
Lonigan looked from son to mother, pain in his face. Fran’s lip turned with contempt. Martin quietly entered the parlor; he was ordered out, and stood listening in the hallway.
“Mary, most holy Mother of God, what did I do to earn this misfortune?” the mother yelled.
Loretta looked hopelessly from one to the other, striving to calm them with her glances; she smiled weakly but with sympathy at Studs.
“Never as long as I live will I feel towards him again as a sister, or recognize that he is my brother!