The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [167]
They rose, and looked lugubriously down at the unbelievably dead body; the prominent ashen face with the beard marks apparent despite a close shave and talcum powder, the black hair, thick and wavy, the stiff arms folded in front with a white pair of rosary beads draped between them, the well-built torso sedately clothed in its black death-suit, black tie, white shirt, black socks, and black patent leather pumps. And, pressed against the white satin lining of the coffin lid, they saw their card, statement of the spiritual bouquet they had all chipped in to send. And as he gazed abstractedly, Studs found himself expecting Arnold to smile, hear him tell a funny story, ask if anyone wanted to get a bottle, laugh and say that it was only a joke he was playing on everyone because he wasn’t really dead after all. But Arnold would never again speak, never again tip a bottle to his lips, never again make a broad he had picked up at the Midway Gardens dance hall. The finality of Arnold’s life made a sudden gash upon Studs’ thoughts. He wanted to talk to Arnold, get to know him better than he had, take in a show with him; and knowing that he never could do these things, he had the vaguest kind of a feeling that whenever anyone you knew and liked died, a part of yourself died with him. It made him think of church on Good Friday, with the statues draped in sorrowing purple, with the odor and feel of ashes everywhere like a pall, and of Ash Wednesday, and the priest’s words when he thumbed your forehead with ashes:
Remember, Oh, man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return!
They heard another muffled sob, and turned to face Mrs. Sheehan, who sat on a camp chair near the gray casket, dressed in black with her robust face paled and compressed.
“I’m very sorry,” Studs muttered, feeling helplessly in-articulate.
“Mrs. Sheehan, I am very sorry for your great misfortune,” Tommy Doyle said, as if learned by rote.
“I know, boys, I know,” she gasped, dropping her head and permitting them to stand awkwardly before her. They edged, self-consciously, past a double aisle of crepe-hanging women who sat on camp chairs. Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman grabbed Studs’ sleeve near the edge of the parlor, and whispered that he should remember her to his dear mother.
They saw Mr. Sheehan standing, lost, by the front door. He was a ruddy, full man, with stooped shoulders, a clipped mustache, and a half-bald gray head. They expressed condolences. He seemed not even to see them, and they smelled his rancid whiskey-breath.
“God, it’s sad,” Studs said, as he and Tommy walked through the hall to the rear.
“Poor fellow, it’s knocked him groggy,” Tommy sorrowed.
They passed through the dining-room where a small group was gathered around one of Arnold’s twin sisters, a pretty black-haired girl who was distraught.
They heard the guys talking in the kitchen. Horace, Arnold’s grown brother, stood in the doorway.
“Jesus, I’m sorry Horace,” Tommy said.
“I know! It’s tough, Tommy. You know I think it’s broken Dad. He acts just like a broken man, interested in nothing, hardly ever seeing anybody. I doubt if he’ll ever get over it,” Horace replied, emphasizing his feeling with slow shakes of the head.
“And Arnold was getting on so well,” Studs said.
“Well, all we can do is make the best of it and call it life,” Horace said reflectively.
A thick veil of tobacco smoke hung over the kitchen. Jim Doyle stood by the kitchen sink, a cigar pasted in his round, jolly face, and he greeted them, called them hoods. They saluted in return, and sat down near Red Kelly. Studs noticed a girl in a corner, shabby, faded, blowsy, looked like a two-bit whore; her face seemed familiar. He frowned, and wrinkled up his forehead trying to think; he realized that she was Paulie Haggerty’s widow, Eileen. What a bitch she had turned out to be!
“Well, Studs, what’s new?” Red Kelly asked.
“Not much.”
Horace passed around cigars. Biting off the end of one, and lighting it, Studs remarked with a certain air of importance and maturity: