Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [31]
The Lonigans moved over to chat with the Reilleys, who accepted their invitation. Fran Lonigan and Fran Reilley, a very pretty dark-haired girl, rounded up some of the kids. Just then Studs and Weary appeared, and the group trooped down to the Lonigans’.
IX
An extravagance of electricity, with almost every light in the house on, swelled the significance of the evening in the Lonigan household.
“I feel relieved that it’s all over,” said Mrs. Lonigan as she sat in one of the imitation-walnut dining-room chairs, sipping ice cream.
“It was grand,” responded Mrs. Reilley, who sat next to her hostess.
“Well, we did the right thing. I’m glad Father Gilhooley gave it to the people who send their children to the public schools, because the public schools ain’t no place for Catholic children, and I say it’s the bounden duty of parents to see that their children get the right upbringin’ by sending them to Catholic schools. It’s only right, and I say, I say, that when you do the right thing, you’re happier. You know, when you’re not happy, you’re worried and nervous, and you worry, and worry causes poisons in your system, and poisons in your system ruin your digestion and harm your liver. Yes, sir, I say that from a hygienic standpoint it pays to do the right thing, like we all done with our children,” said Lonigan as he expanded in comfort in the dining-room Morris chair.
He sat there and sucked enjoyment from his stogy.
“And ain’t it the truth?” said Mrs. Reilley.
“Yeh,” muttered Reilley, who was slumped back in his chair seriously engaged in the effort to enjoy the stogy Lonigan had handed him.
“The Catholic religion is a grand thing,” Mrs. Reilley said.
Lonigan told how he had heard two little Catholic girls, no bigger than his own youngest daughter, swearing like troopers. It was because their parents didn’t send them to the sisters’ school. They all agreed, with many conversational flourishes; and Mrs. Reilley said the girls would sure be chippies.
Mrs. Reilley stated, with swelling maternal pride, that her son, Frank, would attend a Jesuit school and then prepare for the law so that he could some day be a grand Catholic lawyer, like Joe O’Reilley, who had almost been state’s attorney.
“The Jesuits are grand men and fine scholars,” said Mrs. Lonigan.
“They got these here A. P. A. university professors skinned by a hull city block,” Reilley said.
Mrs. Lonigan said that yes the Jesuits were grand men, and she would like to make a Jesuit out of her son William.
“But has he the call?” jealously asked Mrs. Reilley.
“I think so. I say a rosary every night, and I offer up a monthly holy communion, and I make novenas that God will give him the call,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“And wouldn’t I give me right arm if me son Frank had the call?” Mrs. Reilley said.
“But, Mary, you know I’m gonna need Bill to help me in my business. Why do you want to start putting things like that in the boy’s head?” protested Lonigan.
“Patrick, you know that if God wants a boy or a girl for His work, and that boy or girl turns his back on the Will of Almighty God, he or she won’t never be happy and they’ll stand in grave danger of losing their immortal souls,” said she.
“Isn’t it the truth?” said Mrs. Reilley.
“But Mary . . .”
“Patrick, the Will of God is the Will of God, and no mortal can tamper with it or try to thwart it,” his wife replied.
Lonigan protested vainly, saying how hard he had worked, and how a father had some right to expect something in return when he did so much for his children.
Mrs. Lonigan opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Reilley beat her to the floor and said that when a body gets old, all that a body has is a body’s children to be a help and a comfort, and that a body could expect and demand some respect from a body’s children. She and her old man had worn their fingers down to the bone working for their children. Reilley had been a poor teamster, and he had gotten up before dawn on mornings when the cold would almost make icicles on your fingers