Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [437]
The curtain waved, the burning candle flickered, and the radio crooning from outside drifted into the room, causing an expression of annoyance to cut the priest’s face.
Just a gigolo,
Everywhere I go . . .
“. . . per tactum deliquisti. Amen.”
“Turn not away Thy face from me; in the day when I am in trouble, incline Thine ear to me.”
The telephone rang. Catherine and Mrs. Lonigan looked at the closed door. The nurse, glad to get out of the room, signalled to Mrs. Lonigan, arose and tiptoed out of the room.
With the sheets drawn down from him, Studs felt a cooling draft on his legs and body, and he wanted to sleep, and to end this joke of them thinking he was dying when he wasn’t. A joke was a joke, but he wanted to sleep, and his limbs were so tired and there was such a dragging ache in his back, and he wasn’t dying, only sleepy and weak. He felt the touch of something oily on his feet, heard voices as an indistinct blur of sound, told them he wanted no more of this joke, but they wanted to torture him and wouldn’t listen. A sudden smile twisted on his emaciated fevered face. Or was he playing the joke on them?
“For the stones thereof have pleased Thy servants, and they shall have pity on the earth thereof.”
“. . . per gressum deliquisti.”
And after this final anointment the priest wiped his thumb with bread crumbs, washed his hands in the cut-glass bowl, dried them with a linen napkin, the women looking hopefully at his tall back, thinking, as if in unison, that he, he would save their beloved.
He knelt by the bedside.
“Kyrie, eleison.”
“Christe, eleison.”
“Kyrie, eleison.”
While the priest’s lips moved in a silent Pater Noster, a peddler passed down the alley, calling out in a deep and singing voice. . .
“Ba—nan—oes! Ba—nan—no—oes!”
Mrs. Lonigan quickly arose, tiptoed to the bed, drew the sheet over Studs, returned to kneel by Catherine, who sobbed with restraint, her head lowered.
“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.”
The priest paused momentarily, as if awaiting a response, and the women looked questioningly at one another. Mrs. Lonigan turned the pages of the prayer book. While the priest continued, she looked with sad hopefulness at the framed picture of the boy, Christ, above the bed, a clean, clear, sensitive young face with large eyes and longish hair. Christ, the son of Mary, had died. Oh, Mary, Oh, Blessed Virgin Mary whose mother’s heart was wounded by the death of a son! Catherine lowered her head, limply tired. She could neither think nor pray. A haze curtained her head, and she waited for the end of the prayers, waited for this sacrament to work a miracle and give her back her Bill. She knew it would.
“Let us pray, Lord God who hast spoken by Thine Apostle James, saying: Is any man sick among you? Let him call in the priests of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: and the prayer of faith shall save the sick man: and the Lord will raise him up; and if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven him: cure, we beseech Thee, O Our Redeemer, by the grace of the Holy Ghost, the ailments of this sick man; heal his wounds, and forgive his sins; drive out from him all pains of body and mind, and mercifully restore to him full health, both inwardly and outwardly; that, having recovered by the help of Thy mercy, he may once more have strength to take up his former duties, Who, with the Father and the same Holy Ghost, livest and reignest God, world without end.”
“Amen,” the two bystanders chorused.
“Let us pray. Look down, O Lord, we beseech Thee, upon thy servant, William Lonigan, failing from bodily weakness, and refresh the soul which Thou hast created, that being bettered by Thy chastisements, he may feel himself saved by Thy healing,