“She was swell. I liked her,” said Lonigan.
“Well, I wouldn't say that she was precisely swell; but I do believe, I do believe, that she interpreted the masters with grace, charm, talent, verve and fire,” said Mr. Dennis P. Gorman.
“Yes, Dennis,” said Lonigan.
“And your daughter did an excellent piece of acting,” said Dennis.
“Yeh, she did pretty well,” said Lonigan, his assumed modesty breaking across his face.
The two mothers also talked. They had finished on the superbness of their respective daughters, it was Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman's word, and were now commenting on what a grand speech the pastor had made. Mrs. Gorman used the word new, and she redescribed the entertainment as nice. Mr. Dennis P. Gorman paused from his conversation with Lonigan to inform his wife that nice was not the correct word, and that she had mispronounced
new
; it was not
noo.
Dorothy Gorman came out with Frances Lonigan; they both received their flowers. Dorothy Gorman was a plain-featured, almost homely girl, and standing beside Fran she looked pathetic. The appearance of the daughters led to gushiness and many cross compliments. When these were duly finished, Mrs. Lonigan invited Mr. and Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman home for a chat and a bit of ice cream. Mrs. Gorman accepted the invitation, but turned to her husband for his consent.
“Well, I'd like to, Mary, but you know that Dorothy here has had a trying time, and I believe that she had better come home, and we had better see that she gets the proper rest . . . But thank you, exceedingly, Mrs. Lonigan. And sometime I should enjoy the company of you and Patrick at our home.”
“Yes, do come for tea, but be sure and telephone beforehand to be certain that I'm in, because Dennis and I have a number of social engagements these days,” said Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman.
“Yes, May, and thanks,” said Mrs. Lonigan.
“Well, so long, Dinny,” said Lonigan, again an unintentional slip.
Mr. and Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman and their well-guarded daughter strode magnificently home.
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 in no time, and she had gotten up and got his breakfast, and fed the horses, and both of them had worked like niggers in those days back of the yards before their children were born. And a mother doesn't have her back near broken with labor pains for nothing. She held up her red, beefy, calloused hands. Then she boasted that she was proud that her children would not have such a hard time. Frank would be educated for the law; Frances would teach school; and maybe she would make a Sister of Mercy out of little June.
Reilley yawned. Lonigan detailed how hard he had worked.
They could hear the young people laughing, having a
harmless
good time in the parlor. Lonigan said it was great to be a kid, and then spoke of the Orpet murder trial. Everybody felt that hanging was too good and too easy a punishment for such a cur. Mrs. Reilley, in a blaze of passion, said that if a boy of hers ever did such a vile thing to an innocent girl, she would fasten the rope around his neck; but her Frank would never be that kind of a cur; her flesh and blood, he couldn't be. Lonigan made a long speech averring that it was a beastly violation of the natural law. June Reilley and Loretta appeared, and Mrs. Lonigan signaled her husband to pause until she shooed the innocent ones off to Loretta's room. They scampered out of the room, and enjoyed their own discussion of forbidden topics. Then the parents joined in a general denunciation of Orpet, adding that no Catholic would ever commit such a foul deed.
“Sure, that's so,” Lonigan orated profoundly as if he were shedding the fruit of long and consistent thought.
“And isn't the Catholic Church the grand thing?” Mrs. Reilley said lyrically.
“And just think how awful the world would be without the Church,” said Mrs. Lonigan.
“There's nothin' like the Church to keep one straight,” said Lonigan.
“It keeps you toeing the mark. That's one thing to say for it,” Mrs. Reilley said.
Reilley agreed with a feeble nod of his sleepy head.
“That is the reason we gave our children a Catholic education,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“And isn't it the truth that a mother never need worry when she sends her byes and girls to the good sisters, the holy virgins!” Mrs. Reilley said.
There was a nodding of heads.
“Isn't the Church the grand thing,” insisted Mrs. Reilley.
The conversation drifted and dribbled on amidst increasing barrages of yawns.
X
It was the first evening of the official maturity of the young people in the parlor, and after getting seated they wondered what to do; the boys sat stiffly on one side of the room, and gazed furtively at their long trousers; the girls faced them, acting prim and reserved. Growing up had always meant more freedom, and here they were after their graduation, afraid to do anything lest it seem kiddish; afraid, particularly, to play the kids' kissing games they used to play at parties.
“Well, what'll we do?” grumbled Weary, who sat between Studs and sallow-faced TB on the unscratched piano stool.
“Yeah, let's do something,” Studs suggested.
Soft-skinned and fattish Bill Donoghue was seated under the floor lamp near them. He said:
“Now that's a bright idea!”
Studs made a face at Bill, as if to say: Go soak yer head!
“Bill's a loogin who always tries to wisecrack,” Studs said.
“Studs is a little fruity!” Bill said, and they laughed.
“Such awful slang you boys use!” Helen Borax said.
Studs scowled at Helen and said:
“Bill, I'm going to slap your pretty wrist!”
Helen colored slightly, and elevated her nose.
Bill got limp like a sissy, and tapped his own wrist daintily, and everybody laughed at his comics, because Bill was really very funny.
“Well, anyway, I'm glad I'm through school,” said Tubby Connell, a kinky-haired, darkish boy who was plunked, uncomfortably, in the corner easy chair that Mrs. Lonigan always said must be beautiful, because it had cost over a hundred dollars.
“Ope! Look what the wind blew in!” Bill said, looking at Tubby.
“Another lost country heard from,” muttered Studs.
Tubby blushed bashfully.
“Anyway, I'm darn glad to get out of that joint,” Weary said.
“Frank, it isn't a joint . . . And you jus' wait. You'll be sorry and wish you were back at St. Patrick's just like Father Gilhooley said we'd all remember our days there,” his sister said.
“Weary didn't hear him say that. When Gilly was talking of that, I heard him snoring,” Bill said, and they laughed.
Peggy Nugent said you shouldn't speak of a priest like that, or something awful might happen to you. You should always say Father Gilhooley. She smiled, and everybody could see she thought it was thrilling to call him Gilly.
“Well, he has gills like a fish,” Bill said.
“How disrespectful,” Lucy Scanlan said, twinkling her blue eyes.
Weary made faces at his sister. Tubby reiterated that he was glad to get out of jail because he felt that he had to say something. He was blushing.
They laughed, and TB said he, too, was darn glad to get out of the pen, and they laughed again.
“I'll be glad to get to high school,” said well-behaved Dan Donoghue, and just as he did, Bill aimed a peanut at Tubby. Connell told him to cut it out, and Bill asked what in a very innocent voice.
He and Tubby carried on a side-dialogue.
“You will, Dan? Why?” asked Fran Lonigan.
“Oh, I just will,” said Dan.
“Well, I don't know if I'm glad or not,” said Fran.
“What school do you think you'll go to, Studs?” asked Lucy, smiling with her sweet baby-face.
“None.”
“William, you know you're going to high school,” his sister said sternly, as if she were an adult scolding him.
“Yeah, I suppose I don't know what I'm gonna do,” said Studs.
“You most certainly do not,” said she.
“We'll see,” said he, trying to save his scattering dignity.
“Father will see!” said she with finality.
He scowled, felt unmanned, felt that Weary was sneering at him as if he was a weak sister. He looked at his meaningless long trousers.
Weary said with great braggadocio he wasn't going to high school and his sister protested. Tall Jim Clayburn said he thought going to school was sensible and necessary if you wanted to get ahead. He said he thought that Sister Bertha had once told them the truth when she said you needed education and stick-to-it-iveness to get ahead in life. Lucy said Jim was so sensible, and she had a devilish look in her eyes. Dan commenced to agree with Jim, but his brother interrupted him:
“Say, did you see High Collars?”
“Yeah, I saw him walkin' with Dorothy and his wife,” Tubby said, glad to get back in the conversation.
“He wouldn't let her come to the party. He told Mother that Dorothy needed her proper rest,” said Fran Lonigan.
“He's an old mean thing,” said Lucy.
“The poor kid! She's all right, and awfully sweet, but she can't ever do anything on account of her father. Sometimes she tells me about it, and cries,” exclaimed Fran Reilley.
“I wouldn't want an old man like him,” TB said.
They looked at TB, because his old man was nothing to brag about.
“Anyway, he didn't wear his silk hat tonight,” Dan said.
“I wonder if he uses perfume?” TB said.
“I'll bet he wears ladies' underwear,” contributed Bill Donoghue.