The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [26]
“I know her kind. She’s just like a cat, all soft and furry, and with claws that would scratch your eyes out,” the old lady said.
There was a pause in the conversation; Martin looked mischievously at Studs and said:
“Studs got long pants; Studs got long pants.”
“Shut up!”
The old lady reprimanded Martin for using the nickname, and the old man admonished Studs that he shouldn’t talk like that to his brother.
“But I do think William looks darling,” teased Fran.
“You look pretty slick, Bill. Don’t let ‘em get your goat,” the old man said.
“Yes... so cute. Even Lucy Scanlan thought that he looked so... cute,” said Frances.
Studs gave his sister a dirty look; the old man tried to kid Studs about having a girl; Studs shut up tight as a clam.
“Now, children,” the mother conciliated.
“They’re not just children any more,” the old man said.
“Yes, they are. They are, too. They’re my children, my baby blue-eyed boy and girl. They can’t be taken from me, either,” the mother said, tenaciously.
The old man looked at Studs as much as to say: What can you do with a woman?
“Now, Mary, you know that people have to grow up,” the old man said.
“Dad!” Studs said hesitantly.
“Yes,” responded the old man.
“How about my workin’ with you now, instead of goin’ to school? You’ll want me to sooner or later, and I might as well start now,” said Studs.
“Well . I'll have to think it over.”
“Why, William!” protested the mother.
They had a discussion. Mrs. Lonigan kept wondering out loud what the neighbors would think, because it would look like they were too cheap, or else couldn’t afford to send their boy to high school. She repeated, several times, that she would be ashamed to put her head in St. Patrick’s Church again or to look Father Gilhooley or any of the sisters in the face if their boy were sent out into the cold world to work, with only a grammar school education, when all his classmates went on to high school. Lonigan kept nodding his head in thought, and soliloquizing that he didn’t know what to say, because she was right, and yet a lot of this education was nothing but booklearning, nothing but bunk. He had some new thoughts, and these fed further soliloquizing. It was pretty true that in a way knowledge was power and a person could never know too much, as long as he was right-thinking. And then he didn’t want nobody to think that he wasn’t doing the right thing by his children; and maybe people would misinterpret it if the boy didn’t try high school, at least for a while. And anyway, an education could never hurt you as long as you were right-thinking.
Studs tried to dissent, but he was inarticulate.
His incoherent protests were cut short by his mother suggesting that he ought to study for the priesthood. She said one could always change one’s mind, up to the taking of the vows, and a priest got a wonderful education, and even if he didn’t go on with it, he would be more educated than most people. She said it was, just as Father Gilhooley said, the duty of all parents to see if their children had the call. How would God and his poor Mother, and great St. Patrick, guardian saint of the parish, feel if Studs turned a deaf ear on the sacred call? Lonigan opened his mouth to say something, but Studs said decisively he didn’t have the call. The mother said he should pray more, so he would know, and God would reveal to him if he had. Frances interrupted to say that Studs should go to Loyola, because everybody of any consequence was going there and it was the school to go to. They talked on, and it was decided, against Studs’ wishes, that he go to Loyola.
Then the parents rose to retire, yawning.
Mrs. Lonigan put Martin to bed. She hugged the boy close to her meager bosom and said:
“Martin, don’t you think you’d like to be a priest when you grow up, and serve God!”
“I want to be a grave digger,” Martin answered sleepily.
She left the room, her cheeks slightly wet with tears. She prayed to God that he would give one of her boys the call.
After they had left the parlor, Studs sat by the window. He looked out, watching the night strangeness, listening. The darkness was over everything like a warm bed-cover, and all the little sounds of night seemed to him as if they belonged to some great mystery. He listened to the wind in the tree by the window. The street was queer, and didn