As Antichrist I say, let there be sin. Let there be birds and beasts, and flowers, and trees, and let there be males, and let there be females, and let the males be like tomcats, and let the females be like she bitch dogs, and let them jazz morning and noon and night, and let them jazz until their sin rises to heaven in a great and powerful stink like that of the Chicago stockyards.
And Antichrist on the fifth Sunday of February after Pentecost went on into the world of his own sinful creation, and Antichrist Lonigan walked among . . . cities, and over the plains, and across the mountains and down into the seas, and on the waters that were his own urine, and everywhere, among the birds and among the bees, and among the fishes, and . . . and cows, and cats, and men and women, he went, jazzing, and he said, everywhere he went:
Let Heaven stink with the jazzing of my own . . .
. . . stink rose from the world of . . .
. . . the duty of leading his people in sin, and he jazzed in the mountains, and in the valleys, in the hills and in the dales, in the cities and in the villages, towns and hamlets, and on the plains, and the plateaus, and on the oceans, and he jazzed the fishes and the beasts of the fields, and the birds of the air, and he jazzed Lucy Scanlan, and he jazzed his sisters and his mother and his cousin, and he jazzed Catherine, and he jazzed Helen Shires, and Helen Borax, and he jazzed the sister of Weary Reilley, and the sister of Lucy Scanlan, and the sister of Helen Shires, and he jazzed until . . . God could no longer stand the stockyard stench in His nostrils, and He turned his face away, and . . .
Amen, amen, verily I say unto you, I cannot stand the sinful smell of Studs Antichrist Lonigan, and he . . . and the world of his creation must die, and that . . . be death unto this world, for verily, verily, he is black with sin.
And Antichrist Lonigan flung himself on his knees . . . and looked up to high heaven where God . . .
Father, I say unto You, forgive me, for I have jazzed. Father, forgive me, and if You must, kill me, but let me die in the state of grace, and with the Last Sacraments of the one holy true and apostolic Church that takes up a collection every Sunday under the auspices of Father Gilhooley, who is known as the one and only Gilly Himself.
And God looked down upon Studs Antichrist Lonigan who knelt humbly in his own defecation, and God said unto him:
Verily, verily, go take a flying jazz at the moon and die!
And Studs Antichrist Lonigan knelt in his own defecation, and he lowered his head, and said unto himself:
Verily, verily, I must take a flying jazz at the moon and die.
And he raised himself and said aloud:
I go forth as I am told, to jazz the moon.
He walked over the hills and over the dales . . . climbed up ladders of air to the moon . . . and he jazzed the moon, and then he stood again alone in a mist, and he knew he must die. And he felt that if only he could have a drink of water, he would die. His throat dried. Parched, he tore at his hair, and cried out:
Save me! Save me!
IV
Studs lay there, wasted and breathing rapidly. The doctor looked at him, felt the pulse and found it feeble, 110 a minute. Studs talked in delirium, incoherently . . . ugly sounds, out of which there were audible the words:
Save me! Save me!
The doctor found that Studs had a high fever and an indication of fluid in the lungs . . . .
V
Studs Lonigan seemed to be resting quietly. He saw himself clearly as a boy around Fifty-eighth Street, the morning sunny, walking down Indiana Avenue. He felt that he should be happy, but he was unhappy. Sadly, his face moody, he walked along slowly, looking at the buildings, looking in at the building where Lucy Scanlan should live, but where he was sure she did not live, and seeing through dusty windows the interior of a furnitureless parlor.
He walked on. The buildings, all of them, he realized, were untenanted, and this was funny . . . none of the old people were there. . . .
An awful loneliness was in him.
Well, you got your wish, a voice told him.
What wish? he asked, seeing no one.
You wanted to be back here. Riding home from the wake of Shrimp Haggerty, you asked for your wish, and here it is. You're back on Fifty-eighth Street, back on Indiana Avenue, back in the old neighborhood. You got what you want, I hope you're satisfied, the voice said.
Where is the old gang? said Studs.
All right, the voice said.
Studs turned, and saw walking toward him a procession of people, walking one by one. As they approached, a stout woman with four double chins smiled, walked up to him, kissed him, and he felt. . . .
Studs, you darling boy, said the woman.
Who are you? asked Studs.
I'm Lucy Scanlan, the woman said.
Studs looked at her. She walked on, and Studs saw in back of her a crummy little runt, who looked like a bum on West Madison Street.
Got a butt, Studs asked the crummy . . .
. . . Phil Rolfe, dressed in a jockey suit.
Studs, the riding is fine. I'm riding your kid sister, and Studs, no man else ever rode her, and she was good riding in her day. But now I want some new riding, said Phil Rolfe, laughing lewdly.
Studs stood at the edge of the sidewalk, speechless.
Joe Thomas passed, small, and looking like hell, and he said:
Studs, don't ever get without a job.
Studs, how you like my new suit? said Johnny O'Brien.
Studs, go wash your dirty mouth, said Helen Borax, a fat woman with a lorgnette.
Look at Studs, he hasn't changed, said Dan O'Neill, dressed in a gray suit.
Studs, go hop in, and stay hopped, said Weary Reilley in convict's stripes.
Studs, don't have crippled kids. When you have crippled kids, even jazzing doesn't pay, said Simonsky.
Come on back in the alley and bend your . . . over a barrel, little boy, said Leon, the man . . . with a breast hanging through his shirt.
Studs turned. He did not want to see. . . .
Something was happening to him, and he did not know what it was. If his wish came true it would not happen. He walked through an alley, down to Michigan, back along Fifty-eighth Street to Prairie, and there he saw Barney Keefe, his pecker hanging out with his false teeth tied to it.
Go home, you lousy Lonigan little brat, Barney said.
Studs looked at Barney and walked on, saying nothing. He turned in the alley in back of the elevated, and there saw Father Gilhooley on an ash wagon, emptying ash cans, and he asked:
Father, what's all the ashes?
Remember, oh man, that thou art dirty dust and to dirtier dust thou shalt return. Come on in and give me your dirty ashes, the priest, dressed like an ash man, said, and Studs knew he was dying, and that his wish was to live, and he wanted life.
He ran from the priest, feeling that in running from the priest dressed like an ash man he was running from death, and he ran, but when he stopped . . . ashes, and he knew that he could not run. . . .
. . . and dirty, and the world was full of them, and they pelted Studs Lonigan.
Wherever he went they pelted him, and he had no escape, and he stood, stormed under by them, choking, crying out:
Help!
Mrs. Lonigan rushed sobbing into the room, and saw her son on the bed, and heard his feeble delirious cry.
Help!
Oh God! she cried.
“Mrs. Lonigan, please be patient,” the nurse said, moving toward her.
“Oh, God! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He's dying, he's dying,” she cried.
“Mrs. Lonigan, please, please. Now you go and stop fretting yourself. He is not dying. . . .
Disregarding the nurse, Mrs. Lonigan flung herself on her knees beside the bed and looked through her teary eyes at her son, seeing him as in a fog. . . .
Lonigan, having heard the cries from the kitchen, where he had been slumped over the table with his head down, asleep, appeared in the doorway and winced, seeing Mary flung on the bed looking at Studs and sighing at the sight of her boy. He moved slowly toward her. The will was out of him.
“Mary,” he said.
“My son,” she murmured, ignoring her husband's gentle word.
He patted her. He looked at his son, a sight that, he told himself, was scarcely bearable.
“Now, Mary, come, you must get some sleep.”
“My son,” she said.
She arose, went to the dresser, and lit a holy candle. She walked from the room and he followed her, a helpless man, looking at a mother's sorrow. She went to the dresser drawer, fished out . . .
She blessed herself with it, and knelt down to pray before the holy candle.
VI
Before him stood a thin woman, and for a moment he knew not who she was. She was familiar, and old enough to be dried up. Her skin was tight against her bones. He looked at her. He realized it was his mother. He did not want her there before him like that, a figure standing alone, with nothing else in sight, and she not plain, but shifting, her features and form becoming clear, and then unclear, as if he was drunk and seeing her drunk, or as if she was drunk, and not steady on her feet before him. She was nervous and excited.
“Honor thy God and thy mother!” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Your mother is your best friend,” she then said, and he felt that her long, talonlike finger would be dug into his eye.
Yes, he said meekly, wishing she would go away, not wanting her there.
Jesus Christ, he exclaimed to himself.
“You'll only have one mother,” she said.
“When your mother dies, you'll never have another.”
Thank God!
“No one loves you like your mother.”
“God punishes a son who dishonors his mother.”
Does God punish a son who jazzes his mother? Studs asked.
“If a son gives a mother one gray hair, he will merit the punishment of God,” said his mother. His father pointed an accusing finger at him and said solemnly:
“Honor thy father and thy mother.”
Screw you, said Studs.
“Nothing is as sacred as the home,” the father and mother said.
And as goddamn unadulterated dull, said Studs.
“You'll never have a second home, and when you have your own home, and your own children, you will know the truth of what we say. You'll remember then, and say Mother and Dad were right, if I only had listened to them when I had the chance.”
If I listened to them, where in the name of Christ would I be now? Shut up. Shut up, for Christ's sake, shut up, you make my head dizzy and my ears go around, said Studs.
“The home is next to heaven, your father is next to God, and your mother is next to the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
Wheeee! said Studs, feeling a strangeness, feeling brave at saying things he had never had the heart to say and he only wished that people, some of the fellows were there to hear him say these things.
. . .
S ing'em, sing'em, sing them blues, said Studs.
M is the million things she did for you.
O means only that she's growing older
T is for the tears she shed to save you.
H is for her heart of purest gold
E is for her eyes with lovelight shining
R is right and right she'll always be.
P ut them all together, they spell Mother
A word that means the world to me.