Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [438]
“Amen.”
“Let us pray. O Holy Lord, Father Almighty, Eternal God, who, by shedding the grace of Thy blessing upon our failing bodies, dost preserve, by Thy manifold goodness, the work of Thy hands: graciously draw near at the invocation of Thy name, that having freed Thy servant from sickness, and bestowed health upon him, Thou mayest raise him up by Thy right hand, strengthen him by Thy might, defend him by Thy power, and restore him to Thy holy church, with all desired prosperity. Through Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen.”
VII
The priest gathered up the cotton balls to carry them to the church, burn them, and throw their ashes into the sacrarium.
“Oh, thank you so much, Father,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“The sacrament may help him, Mrs. Lonigan. I have attended sick beds with the sick person closer to the end than your son is, and they have recovered. So you must have faith and give yourself into the hands of God.”
“Yes, Father. Father, I’m ready. If it is the will of God that he must go, I will face it. Father, he’s been so sick. He came home here and he couldn’t walk in the door. He fell into my arms.”
The priest seemed shy.
“Father, did your family live in Brighton Park?”
“Why, no, Mrs. Lonigan, I was born in Buffalo.”
“I used to know some McCaffreys in Brighton Park.”
“No, no relatives of mine. I have only one cousin in Chicago, and they live on the north side. Their name is O’Halloran.”
“I once knew some O’Hallorans who lived in Saint Ignatius parish.”
The priest edged toward the hall door.
“Father, take this as an offering, and say a high mass for the Souls in Purgatory,” Mrs. Lonigan said, handing the priest a five-dollar bill.
“You’re a good woman, Mrs. Lonigan, and I’m sure that Our Lord will bestow his graces upon you and your family. And I’ll pray for you and for your boy. We must, on occasions like these, put our trust in the hands of the Lord and pray.”
“Yes, Father. You’ve been so good, and you’ve given me so much hope.”
“Goodbye, Father, and thank you,” Catherine said, coming forward as the priest placed his hand on the doorknob.
Mrs. Lonigan stood facing Catherine while the front door closed, and Catherine was again afraid of her.
“He’s like a living saint,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“Yes, Mrs. Lonigan. And it ought to help Bill, too.”
Suddenly Mrs. Lonigan hugged Catherine, drew her tight, and held her firmly against her own body.
“Oh, Mrs. Lonigan, I feel so much better, and I know now Bill will pull through. God won’t let anything happen to him.”
“Yes, child. I know, I know how you feel.”
“Maybe we ought to say a little prayer,” Catherine said.
The mother and girl sobbed in each other’s arms.
VIII
Catherine fixed a sightless glance on a man alighting from an automobile and disappearing in the apartment hotel across from the Lonigan parlor. She was empty and dull after the administration of the last sacrament to Studs, and her eyes were dry. She turned from the window and walked to the easy chair by the radio where Mr. Lonigan always sat. He would be home soon, and if he seemed kindly and understanding, she might tell him. Or should she? Now she might wait, because Bill was resting more easily, and she had faith. God was now going to spare him.
Unnoticed by Catherine, Mrs. Lonigan entered the parlor and stood over the girl. A deep sigh caused Catherine to look up, surprised, at Studs’ mother. Mrs. Lonigan stroked her hair gently, and Catherine thought that Mrs. Lonigan had just been upset before the priest had come. Now there was sympathy between them, and they would be able to understand each other’s feelings. Catherine smiled gratefully, unsuspicious, and a glow of emotion from the administration of the Sacrament of Extreme Unction seemed to lull through her. She dismissed a sudden and passing thought of warning to be careful.
“Catherine, if my son lives, you are going to be my daughter-in-law, like my daughter, because I have begun to feel toward you the same as if you were my own daughter. Now, my girl, you must not hold back anything from me. You must remember