The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [156]
“God, what can we do? If people we know saw him, I’ll never again be able to set foot in St. Patrick’s church with my head up,” the mother mourned.
“And what will I do? Shamed and disgraced before Michael so that I couldn’t look him in the face last night. My whole evening was ruined. I was so disgraced that I could have wept,” Fran complained.
“Fran, please!” Loretta exclaimed.
They were thrown into silence as the key clicked in the front door.
“Now, folks, let me handle this!” the father said, showing a sudden sense of confidence and control.
The mother rushed to the hall as Studs was heard walking to the bathroom. She flung herself on him, and sobbed: “My son! My son! My precious first-born baby son!”
“Mother!” Fran indignantly called from the parlor.
He heeded their summons and walked into the parlor, limping, with his clothes filthy, his face bloated, his eyes bloodshot. “Well!” he exclaimed, with a slight shrug of the shoulder. “Bill, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do on Christmas morning?” the father said accusingly.
“Yes, William, Merry Christmas!” Fran said sarcastically.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what did Satan do to my son!” the mother cried, throwing her arms dramatically over her head, looking vaguely at the ceiling with haggard, red eyes.
“Please, Mother!” Loretta pleaded, showing presence of mind.
Lonigan looked from son to mother, pain in his face. Fran’s lip turned with contempt. Martin quietly entered the parlor; he was ordered out, and stood listening in the hallway.
“Mary, most holy Mother of God, what did I do to earn this misfortune?” the mother yelled.
Loretta looked hopelessly from one to the other, striving to calm them with her glances; she smiled weakly but with sympathy at Studs.
“Never as long as I live will I feel towards him again as a sister, or recognize that he is my brother!” Fran said with appropriate melodrama.
“After all I’ve done for my children, and suffered!” the mother exclaimed.
Fran went to her bedroom, and returned with Studs’ Christmas present of six pair of silk stockings.
“Till my dying day I’ll hate you... you... you brute!” she said, returning the present.
Studs accepted them without a word. He was tired and pooped. His head ached. He could taste vomit all the way up from his guts. He could hardly keep his eyes open.
They looked at Fran, shocked, hurt. In a wearied voice, the father asked her please not to do a thing like that. She retorted that her ears still burned from the vile, unmentionable things he had called her and Michael last night. The mother pulled a faint. Fran blamed Studs for it. Loretta ran for water. Studs stood helpless in the center of the parlor. The father excitedly told everyone not to get excited. He patted the mother’s pale cheeks.
“Close your trap!” Studs finally barked, tired of Fran’s accusation that he was murdering his mother.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” the mother cried, coming to and sitting up, her words drowning Fran’s querulous voice.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Loretta solicitously asked.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m only a mother!”
The father asserted that he would take charge of things, and asked Bill to wash up and have a talk with him. He drank a cup of coffee, and sat in the dining-room trying to read his crumpled copy of the morning newspaper, while Studs washed up and changed his clothes. He drifted into thinking of what he would tell Studs, and was quickly precipitated into nostalgic memories of how he had gone on benders in his own day; and how, once, right after he had popped the question and Mary had said yes, he had gotten blind as a bat and almost kicked over the apple cart trying to start a scrap with a whole room full of her relatives. He had made his mistakes, plenty of them. Ah, some of those Saturday nights. But that was no excuse for Bill. He had had no chance in life. His father had been poor and a heavy drinker, and he and his mother, Lord have mercy on their souls, had always quarreled and bickered. Bill had a good home, a good example set for him, a place made for him in life, all that a young man could ask for. His own mistakes should serve as a beacon light to guide the boy, Bill, along the right way. That solid old maxim: Do not as I do, but do as I say, it was sound sense. And he hadn