Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [456]
“My mother is dead, years dead,” Lonigan muttered.
“That’s one thing that’s sure in this life. Everybody dies,” the young lad in the blue suit said.
“And ’tis soon we’ll all be out of this sad vale of tears,” McGuire bemoaned.
“Maybe you should brace up now and go home, friend,” the bartender said.
“Yes. You know, I’m not a drinking man. I drink, yes, but not like this. Only today. . . . I’m a ruined man. I can’t go on facing troubles without a few drinks to buck me up. I’m a painting contractor and a goddamn good one, but there are no contracts or jobs now, and I can’t even collect what’s owed to me. And they’re taking my building away from me. They’re taking the sweat of years of hard working. And now my son. . . . He’s dead. Sir, I’ve been on the square all my life. There’s nobody can say Paddy Lonigan isn’t on the level. They ain’t got no right to do this to me. An honest man all my life, and now, look at me.” His head swam. Through disordered images he saw his son’s bed, the white sheets drawn over the stiff corpse. “My son, Bill, he was like a pal to me. I was going to leave him my money. He was going to carry on my business,” Lonigan commenced crying. “And he was marrying the finest girl, s’ finest girl in God’s world. In two weeks. And now he’s dead. Gentlemen, do you know what that means?”
“I do, sir. Indeed I do. Only you must brace yourself up, and not flout the will of God. What happens is His will and works for the best,” the bartender said.
Lonigan leaned shabbily over the bar, crying, his facial muscles relaxed, suggesting an ugly approach to old age. McGuire, his head on a table, snored loudly. Several strangers entered, and a slick fellow, with a cropped mustache, laughed at Lonigan.
“Poor old bastard,” the lad in the blue suit said, and Lonigan caught the words through his drunken fog.
Nothing but a poor old bastard. Brace up. Buck up, Paddy boy! Holding onto the bar, he staggered to the two young fellows. He had to talk, and they knew, they felt sorry for him.
“Lads, I’m older than you. I’m older than you, and I’ve been through the mill. I’m a father with four kids, and they’re the world to me and my old woman. Boys, I’m talking to you like a father. Take care of your health, lads. Guard it. My boy Bill didn’t, and he’s paid the penalty. Dead. . . . The dark angel hovered over my unhappy home like a thief in the night, and snatched him up. That’s why I’m drunk. That’s why I’m just a poor old bastard. I had to get drunk. I’m not a drinking man. I had to. When everything a man has falls from under him, he’s got to do something.”
“Ought to put him out of his misery,” the fellow with the close-cropped mustache said low and superciliously to a companion.
“It’s tough,” the lad in the blue suit said sympathetically.
“Dad, you better grab a cab and go home,” the lad in working clothes said.
“Boys, I can get home,” Lonigan said, looking at them with shrewd suspicion. “I can take care of myself. Paddy Lonigan has always taken care of himself. He’s pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, and he’d still be on top but for fate. Fate and the international Jew bankers. Lads, my son died today. He’s dead. He was a regular fellow, like you boys are, chip off the old block, a man’s man, a fighter. All Lonigans are fighters, fighting hard, even when it’s a losing battle,” he drooled.
“Come on, dad,” the fellow in working clothes said, taking his right arm, while Lonigan wiped tears away with his dirty left hand.
“You two boys make me think of my Bill,” he said as they supported him out of the saloon.
They put him in his Ford.
“Now where to?” the lad in working clothes asked, getting in the driver’s seat.
Lonigan mumbled an address, sank back in his seat.
Chapter Nineteen
I
“I CAN’T help it. I’ll never forgive her. I can’t help it,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“But mother!” Fran exclaimed.
“Mother, you know she loves Studs, and if he lives, she’ll make him a