The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [432]
“Brace up, friend,” McGuire said, his feet sliding from under him as he pitched face foremost on the floor. “Brace up,” he repeated, groveling on the floor.
Lonigan puffed, lacking the strength to lift McGuire. The two young lads dragged him to his feet and dumped him in a chair.
“It’s a tough old world,” the bartender said, meeting Lonigan’s eyes in a glance of mutual sympathy. “Now I well remember the day my poor old mother passed away. She was ninety-two, and you know, after she died, they couldn’t get her mouth closed. My sister, she was crying, and cutting up for a fright, because she was sad to see my poor old mother lying there so cold, and nobody able to close my mother’s mouth. And my aunt who was ninety-four, when my sister told her how they couldn’t get the mouth of my mother closed, she, that’s my aunt, she said to my sister, `Well, you children never let her open it when she was alive. Let her open it in death as an act of charity.’ And since that day I have never spoken to my aunt, and she’s alive to this day. She’s a hundred and two years old.”
“My mother is dead, years dead,” Lonigan muttered.
“That’s one thing that’s sure in this life. Everybody dies,” the young lad in the blue suit said.
“And ‘tis soon we’ll all be out of this sad vale of tears,” McGuire bemoaned.
“Maybe you should brace up now and go home, friend,” the bartender said.
“Yes. You know, I’m not a drinking man. I drink, yes, but not like this. Only today...I’m a ruined man. I can’t go on facing troubles without a few drinks to buck me up. I’m a painting contractor and a goddamn good one, but there are no contracts or jobs now, and I can’t collect what’s owed to me. And they’re taking my building away from me. They’re taking the sweat of years of hard working. And now my son... He’s dead. Sir’, I’ve been on the square all my life. There’s nobody can say Paddy Lonigan isn’t on the level. They ain’t got no right to do this to me. An honest man all my life, and now, look at me.” His head swam. Through disordered images he saw his son’s bed, and white sheets drawn over the stiff corpse. “My son, Bill, he was like a pal to me. I was going to leave him my money. He was going to carry on my business,” Lonigan commenced crying,. “And he was marrying the finest girl, s’ finest girl in God’s world. In two weeks. And now he’s dead. Gentlemen, do you know what that means?”
“I do, sir. Indeed I do. Only you must brace yourself up, and not flout the will of God. What happens is His will and works for the best,” the bartender said.
Lonigan leaned flabbily over the bar, crying, his facial muscles relaxed, suggesting an ugly approach to old age. McGuire, his head on a table, snored loudly. Several strangers entered, and a slick fellow, with a cropped mustache, laughed at Lonigan.
“Poor old bastard,” the lad in the blue suit said, and Lonigan caught the words through his drunken fog.
Nothing but a poor old bastard. Brace up. Buck up, Paddy boy! Holding onto the bar, he staggered to the two young fellows. He had to talk, and they knew, they felt sorry for him.
“Lads, I’m older than you. I’m older than you, and I’ve been through the mill. I’m a father with four kids, and they’re the world to me and my old woman. Boys, I’m talking to you like a father. Take care of your health, lads. Guard it. My boy Bill didn’t, and he’s paid the penalty. Dead... The dark angel hovered over my unhappy home like a thief in the night, and snatched him up. That’s why I’m drunk. That’s why I’m just a poor old bastard. I had to get drunk. I’m not a drinking man. I had to. When everything a man has falls from under him, he’s got to do something.”
“Ought to put him out of his misery,” the fellow with the close-cropped mustache said low and superciliously to a companion.
“It’s tough,” the lad in the blue suit said sympathetically. “Dad, you better grab a cab and go home,