Studs Lonigan (53 page)

And he would take her places, and the future was before him like a new land, and he felt like Columbus might have felt when he discovered America.

Father Doneggan kissed the Altar. He turned and saluted the people:

 

 

Et cum spiritu tuo
.

 

Oremus
.

The choir sang the appointed psalm. A sense of solemnity came upon Studs. He bowed his head as Father Doneggan reverently lifted the paten before the crucifix. Studs' head remained bowed. A vision of Heaven, with God enthroned in red on a golden throne, came to him as through a mist. He was unaware of the sacred progress of the mass, and he knelt with his head still bowed, filled with vague thoughts of adoration, until he heard the choir:

 

 

As a boy, he had sung the song in the children's choir at five o‘clock mass on Christmas morning. The feeling of Christmas, a feeling of joy and reverence suffused upon him, and he remembered boyhood Christmas days, with the snow coming down as he dashed to five o'clock mass, wearing high, laced boots like those lumberjacks wore in movies, kicking chunks of ice with them, hoping to meet Lucy, meeting Dan and Bill, hunching his face forwards and hurrying into a raw wind. He remembered himself, Dan and Bill running to church to be there on time. He remembered them singing, with Lucy, standing with the girls, singing, now and then seeming to dart a glance at him, and TB McCarthy in front of him, goofily singing:

 

 

Jim Clayburn came towards him with the collection box, a small, square, wooden container attached to a long pole. Jim pushed it by Studs, smiling a trifle, and Studs dropped in a Christmas envelope, containing five dollars. Studs noticed that the box was packed with bills and envelopes. He hoped she'd noticed that he was making a good offering. She put in a dollar bill.

The offertory bell sounded a warning that the Canon or Sacrificial part of the Mass was beginning. Heads bowed, and hands beat on chests.

 

 

Studs muttered the words of the Act of Contrition over and over again. He wished last night undone, like he had almost never wished for anything. The bell, the sudden feeling of change in everyone at Mass, the knowledge that he was to witness the greatest of mysteries, the changing of bread and water into the body and blood of Jesus Christ, the memories of other masses, other Christmas days, catechism lessons, all converged in him. He was lonesome, and contrite, and adoring. He felt himself a part of the great and powerful Catholic Church, built upon the rock of Peter, a member, however unworthy, and he vowed to be more worthy. He thought of how, ever since the Last Supper, the mystery of the mass had been celebrated, and God, through Jesus Christ, Our Lord, had given himself to the faithful for their redemption. In ancient Rome, in catacombs, in the middle ages in great cathedrals, in Ireland in caves when the priests were hunted, and the British had put a price on their heads, today all over the world, this same Mass, this same sacrifice was being celebrated, and pride in the Church mounted in equal proportion with his cumulative feeling of shamed unworthiness. . . .

 

 

The Latin words blended into the mystery, and Studs would have given anything to have received Holy Communion on this Christmas Day. He prayed sincerely, saying Our Fathers and Hail Marys, his mind filling again and again with visions of heavenly rejoicing about the shining thrones of the bearded and powerful Creator of Heaven and Earth, of other Masses, of the Church through the ages, the Popes celebrating Mass in Rome centuries ago, missionaries celebrating in far off heathen Asia. . . . I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. . . . Envy flashed in his thoughts, and he wished that he were in Father Doneggan's place, celebrating the Mass, exercising the greatest and most mysterious powers that man could have, and that only could be exercised by him who was consecrated in the priesthood. He thought that perhaps his mother had been right, and that he had had a vocation, and that he should have studied for the priesthood. Perhaps he had scorned a vocation, and that was the reason why he was always feeling that there was something more in life that he could never seem to get, and couldn't even name. Perhaps his heedlessness to the call from God Almighty meant that he would be unhappy all his life.

 

 

The tune of the Christmas song ran through his mind, again drawing it back to boyhood, and boyhood Christmas days, and that Christmas morning that he had come home from five o'clock mass, and had been given a ten-dollar gold piece by his old man, and in the afternoon, he and Dan Donoghue had gone to a show and seen Salome, and in the picture, Theda Bara as Salome had done the dance of the seven veils, stripping off veil after veil, and the scene had suddenly changed before the last veil had come off, and they had been so damn disappointed. He was sad because he had grown up, and because the years passed like a river that no man could stop. Oh, come let us adore, oh, come let us adore, Christ, Our King. He had all the old feelings he had used to have on Christmas day, feelings he could not find words for, feelings that ran through the songs sung in church on Christmas. . . .

 

 

Again, the bell knelled through the hushed church. Studs bowed his head in unison with the people, and tapped his breast. His thoughts were vague. His body and mind seemed separated, his mind swimming away free and in a sea of melancholy, his body heavy and sluggish like a dragging weight.

He listened to the choir singing, a sweetness and strength in their voices and in the song:

 

 

He watched Father Doneggan bowing his head low and silently reciting the prayers in immediate preparation for the reception of Holy Communion. Through his mind there ran a communion song:

He felt like a plain, ordinary low-down bastard. He vowed that he would receive Holy Communion next Sunday. But he knew he would always be sorry for having done what he had last night. And he thought of her next to him, and tried to wish she and he were engaged, and going to Communion together this morning, and. . . . He bowed his head as the bell rang for the Domine non sum dignis.

Mass would soon be over. He wanted it to be, and he didn't want it to be over, because maybe if he didn't work fast now, he would never see, or never get a chance with the girl who was next to him. And he was tired. The church seemed to get more and more stuffy, and he was almost falling asleep. He kept side-glancing at her, and he wanted her more and more with every glimpse. He faced the altar, all his confidence shattered, and wondering whether or not she was thinking of him, or even secretly laughing at him. He tried to regain his confidence by assuring himself he was Studs Lonigan, and that Studs Lonigan had done things, was real stuff, and tough, too.

He arose for the last gospel and people commenced leaving the church. He heard her whispering pardon me, the voice striking him will-less. She had to repeat it. He turned. She smiled, and he didn't know what to make of her smile, whether it was friendly or sarcastic or what. She passed him, and was gone. It was like a toppling of thrones, a toppling of something inside of him. Maybe she was gone out of his life, just like Lucy. He tried to remember her voice, with its quiet but confident tones. He tried to remember her face. He tried to feel he would see her again, and that with her everything would be different, and there would be no more jazzing around, drinking, can houses. Maybe next Saturday night when he went to confession, she would be there and remember him, and he'd be reformed by her, and . . . He yawned. Felt rotten, goddamn it. He had been a complete, undiluted, unadulterated, all-around chump. And he was sorry, very sorry.

 

He walked out of the church, while the choir sang:

 

 

He shoved forwards, passing people, but when he got outside, he couldn't find her in the crowd. People wished him a Merry Christmas and he hardly heard them. But he would, he would, by Christ, he would see her again, and she would know him, the real Studs Lonigan that nobody had ever known.

He met Tommy Doyle, and they looked at the people pass until Tommy got tired. Studs dragged along with Tommy, still wanting to wait as a last hope that she might be outside, that she might even be waiting for him. Tommy told Studs how they had all been thrown in the can, and asked how he had gotten away. Studs told him. Tommy marvelled. He said Red's old man had gotten them out. Studs felt lousy, but hurried Tommy along, despite his sprained ankle, because he was hoping they would pass her on the street. They stopped for a coke at Fifty-eighth and Indiana Avenue, and then went over to the poolroom, because Studs wanted the fellows to know how he had escaped during the raid. But he didn't think that he had ever felt so low in his whole life.

IT WAS
dreary February weather. The children were all out, and Mrs. Lonigan had the dinner dishes finished. She rearranged a few chairs. She emptied an ash-tray. She straightened her sons' dresser. She pottered about until there was absolutely nothing to do. Then she picked up the
New World
and read the news. Lonigan laughed over the funnies. Cigar ashes dropped onto his shirt, and some fell on the floor. Mrs. Lonigan cautioned him, and hustled in with the carpet sweeper. He said she should not worry because ashes kept moths away and were good for a rug. She said ashes did nothing any good. She put away the carpet sweeper, returned, and looked through the society section of the
Chicago Daily Tribune.
He glanced at his watch. She asked the time, and he answered that it was a quarter to four. She remonstrated aloud with herself that it was too late to go to Benediction. She suggested that they take a little walk and get a nip of air. He yawned and said he was too tired and thought he would take a nap. She picked up the funnies and arranged them neatly with the other sections of the Sunday paper. When Lonigan awoke, it was dark out. Mrs. Lonigan was preparing supper, and Martin was in the parlor playing
The Sheik of Araby
on their two-hundred-dollar electric victrola. Lonigan went out to the kitchen, his face wide with a yawn, and remarked that spring would soon be bursting forth, and that he would have to be taking his sweetheart out a lot like the good old days. He pinched her cheeks. She told him not to be bothering her while she was fixing the meal.

“I'M YOUR buddy, Hink. I'll take care of you,” Shrimp Haggerty drooled; he tottered forwards to clutch at Hink Weber's arm as Hink reeled by the curb edge. Mush Joss feebly grabbed for Hink's other arm, Hink strained and muttered incoherently, while he dragged them about.

Nate Klein alighted from his cab and joined Studs, who stood in front of the poolroom with his hands sunk in his overcoat pocket.

“Weber is aiming to take a nose dive in the gutter,” Nate said with a silly laugh.

“Yeah. But say, Nate, I thought Mush Joss was in the navy?” Studs asked.

“He deserted, second time, the boys were saying.”

Hink shook free of his care-takers and floundered into a precarious balance. He swayed as helplessly as a baby in the center of the sidewalk, with his shoulders bent and his nodding head lowered.

“How goes the cab racket, fink?” laughed Studs.

“Well, Studs, I ain't got no complaints. I wasn't working for a long time, and then I got me this job, and now I'm also lined up with a can house, and get my split on anybody I bring there. That reminds me. The next time you boys want a girl, let me bring you there. The girls are all young.”

“Sure. How about you? Ever take part of your split out in trade?”

“Do I? They got a seventeen-year-old blond there who's as low as a broad could be, but say, Studs, she knows her stuff,” Nate said, lasciviously.

Studs watched the blind meanderings of the three drunks. Nate laughed and wisecracked.

“Nate, it looks like hell to see a guy like Hink so goddamn helpless. Christ, look at him, and he's such a powerful fellow, with a beautiful physique. Say, they could make a statue out of that boy's body,” Studs said reflectively.

“Hell, Studs, we all get that way now and then; he'll get over it.”

“Say, and you know Shrimp is looking bad these days. He's getting skinnier than a rail.”

“Yeah, he's hitting it up.”

“His wife takes plenty from him. Christ, he's drunk every day, and she goes out and works for him, and they got that kid. I wonder why the hell Shrimp married her. He doesn't seem to give a damn for her,” said Studs.

“You know how it is, Studs. A broad won't come across and a guy gets hot for her, so he marries her to get it. Then after he gets it a while, he gets tired and wants something else to change his luck. It happens that way in the best-regulated families,” Nate said.