Studs Lonigan (131 page)

Studs looked up, and saw high above him the extended right hand of the priest, and he wanted them to know it was a joke, but they didn't even listen to him when he told them.

“In nomine Pa—”
the priest made the sign of the cross,
“—tris et Fi—”
again he made the sign of the cross,
“—lii et Spiritus—”
and again his fingers traced the cross in the air,
“—Sancti, exstinguatur . . .”

The three kneeling women looked into the prayer book, reading in slow and frightened words that mingled with the priest's solemn Latin.

And the priest with his right hand over the suffering head of Studs Lonigan, an intense pride in his ascetic features, slowly intoned.

And the priest dipped his thumb into the holy oil, while the window curtain moved slightly and the three bystanders bent their heads toward the prayer book in Mrs. Lonigan's hand. The nurse recited the Psalms without conviction in her voice, thinking that he would die soon, wondering, drowsy and tired, would she get all her pay. Mrs. Lonigan and Catherine recited with fervor, fear and piety in their faces, struck with awe and wonder by the un-understood Latin and the mystery of the sacrament which would save their beloved from the fires of Hell.

“Per istam sanctam Unctio—”
the priest administered the Unction on the closed eyelids of Studs Lonigan in the form of a cross,
“—nem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum deliquisti. Amen.”

“I have acknowledged my sin to Thee; and my injustice I have not concealed,”
the three bystanders intoned.

The priest wiped his thumb with a fresh ball of cotton, and dropped the cotton onto an empty saucer. Mrs. Lonigan watched as he again dipped his thumb into the oil, and she thought that her son might once have been such a man, a priest, bringing solace and strength to the dying, and she saw him not on the death bed, but as the priest, reciting the Latin words, bending over one whose soul was flying.

And Studs Lonigan lay half in coma, mumbling to himself only of sleep and escape from the aching tiredness that was like a river flowing in his body, while the priest anointed his ears in the form of a cross.

The Latin words, the recited Psalms, were disturbing noises in Studs' ears, and he lay restlessly, his breathing coming with clicking noises, thinking over and over again how it was a joke for them to think of him dying, and would they only hurry up, go away, let him sleep. And next week he would be back in Sister Bertha's class at St. Patrick's telling kids in the class about how he had fooled them all by not dying at all, and he could hear Lucy Scanlan praying for him, and he would tell her, too, about this joke, and he wanted to sleep, he was so very, very tired.

The voices of the mother and sweetheart throbbed, broke. Tears streamed down their faces. Breathless, tired, their backs straining, their knees hurting, they recited, smearing their faces by hastily wiping their tears with the backs of their hands. As if through tear-dimmed eyes, Mrs. Lonigan saw her boy in the cradle, saw him receiving his first Holy Communion in a Buster Brown collar and a blue suit, and Catherine saw herself and Bill again walking in Jackson Park on a Sunday, and the nurse, beginning to tire, wished this Catholic mumble-jumble would end.

And the priest signed the cross on the blistered lips of Studs Lonigan.

And mechanically the priest's voice intoned while a fierce pride of justification swept like a torrent within him, repaying him in this moment of the exercise of his powers to succor the dying, for all his struggles with the world, the flesh, the devil, the temptations arising out of his own nature.

“
. . . per gustum et locutionem deliquisti. Amen
.”

Envisioning Heaven in an unclear sense of perfect happiness flying about like an unseen bird, Heaven and God Whose ministrations he was performing on this dying man, the priest wiped his thumb with an additional clean ball of cotton, dropped it into the saucer containing the previously used balls of cotton. Contrite for the false pride that had stirred him with this exercising of his mysterious powers, he thought of God, an Unseen Spirit, looking down upon this little scene, preparing Himself to receive another soul redeemed at death from the clutches of Satan. Again he dipped his finger in the Holy Oil.

He pressed the sign of the cross on the backs of the wasted hands of Studs Lonigan, observing the bony protuberances of wrists, knowing that it must be the Will of God taking this suffering sinner's life.

Her face distorted with tears, Mrs. Lonigan brokenly read the Psalms, thinking that in sin did she conceive him, her own flesh and blood dying while she was powerless to die for him, protect him, help him; and Catherine sobbed, and told herself that in sin had she conceived Bill's fatherless baby. Oh, God, no, please, please God, no!

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Amen,”
the two bystanders chorused.

“
Amen.
”

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.

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.