Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [459]
Again she prayed.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee, and blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .
And the fruit of her womb. Was there a mother in this world, suffering tonight as she was, she asked herself?
III
His face revealing an alcoholic stupor, Lonigan hiccupped. He laid his face on the kitchen table and cried. Paddy, buck up and be a man! He moved unsteadily to the stove and lit the gas under the coffee pot. He drew a cup and saucer from the cupboard and set them on the table.
Paddy, buck up and be a man!
He wheezed and wiped his perspiring face. He lowered his head on his left forearm, thinking that he might just rest a minute until the coffee boiled. He raised his head and stared at the calcimined ceiling. He looked at the clock on the window sill, above the table. A quarter to two.
The coffee slowly bubbled and commenced to boil.
He was acutely aware of the clock ticking in the quiet house. He wished that it would stop, that time would come to a dead halt. He had a nauseating headache, but he was beginning to sober up and the coffee would fix him just right.
Buck up, Paddy, and be a man! he told himself.
Tired, he laid his head again on the table, waiting for the coffee to boil.
“Goodness, Patrick, what’s this? Is the house on fire?” Mrs. Lonigan excitedly said as she rushed into the kitchen sniffing, seeing her husband asleep. She shook him.
“What, Mary? Oh, hello,” he said, looking at her dazed, his words seeming to float listlessly in the air as if there were nobody behind the utterance.
She rushed to the stove, and burned her hand removing the burning pot and dropping it in the sink. He gazed at her with the guilty expression of a boy while she sucked on her fingers. She went to him, and he stood up, clenching her in his arms.
“Father,” she moaned.
“Now, Mary, we got to be brave and strong, and face whatever the Lord visits upon us. I know it’s hard, Mary, but you and me, we’ve come through a lot, and we’ve still got one another, and our other children. And I have a feeling that Bill will pull through.”
He patted her head, gently kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, the top of her gray head.
“Oh, Patrick!” she sobbed.
IV
Martin Lonigan paused at the first landing and warned himself to be quiet because his brother was pretty sick. He steadied himself against the banister, and staggered up the stairs. He withdrew his door key from a trouser pocket and thudded against the door. He rebounded. He tried to fit the key into the lock, jabbed it against the metal, and heard subdued voices from within. As he again strove to insert the key, the door opened and he fell into the house. His father gripped him. Mrs. Lonigan appeared behind her husband, and at the sight of Martin, she blessed herself.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. First the sweetheart tells me she’s having a baby. Then the father and son come in drunk.”
She fainted.
“Mother. Mother,” Lonigan softly exclaimed, staggering with her into the parlor, while Loretta rushed to the kitchen for water.
Martin hung his coat and hat on the rack, his mother’s fainting having had a partially sobering effect.
“Hello, Fran,” he said, floundering into the parlor.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Fran snapped, looking daggers at him.
“Now Fran, you know I like Studs. Always did. Studs was a great guy. It ain’t right for him to be sick like this, and he’s my brother, you know. I hate to see him kick the bucket . . . die. I want to see him alive. He’s my brother, and I respect him. Don’t want to see him sick. We all like Studs, don’t we?” Martin said, lighting a cigarette.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Fran said, vigorously shaking his shoulders.
“None of us wants Studs sick, do we?”
She led him off to bed, and the father and Loretta revived the mother.
V
He seemed to be choking.
“Mother, it’s getting dark,” he called feebly.
He gasped. There was a rattle in his throat. He turned livid, his eyes dilated widely,