The Inn-Tavern, usually called “Mulligan’s Place,” comprised three and a half stories. In the attic, an incongruous squat box with a single window, lived some of the help. The lower stories had balconies, ornate with wooden lacework, painted an immaculate white, carved and stained-glass windows or windows with fretted iron over them also painted white, and little openings, hardly windows, tinted a brilliant gold. There was a lone tower to the left of the attic, perched on the third floor, with a candle-snuffer roof. The doors were of heavy wood, overlaid in carved bronze. Mr. Mulligan had had the roofs of all painted a soft green, but the wooden walls of the house had been painted such a dark green that it appeared almost black. There were porches here and there where permanent guests could sit on pleasant evenings and look at the passing people, the motorcars, and the carriages. Though the edifice was directly on the sidewalk, it had an air of rich, reserved elegance, and it had a strictly ordered long thin garden in the rear, also for guests. The garden held white wrought-iron benches and chairs. Mr. Mulligan had gone deeply into debt to restore the house, but had paid off the debt in five years and was now very prosperous.
All the floors in the huge house were of pegwood and as shining as mirrors, and were partly covered by Oriental rugs in quiet and luxurious shades. The bedrooms were ample, well equipped, the china of the best quality, hand-painted. Mr. Mulligan had enlarged the one bathroom and had added another, and had embellished them with marble fittings. There was also a “ladies’ retiring room” with couches and chairs and a lavatory, which was the admiration of the town. Here ladies could comb their hair, gossip together between courses at dinner, touch up very inconspicuous “paint,” and scrutinize each other’s gowns.
People drove from miles around Belleville to dine at Mr. Mulligan’s. It was famous not only for its cuisine but also for its imported wines and warmth and prudence. There was nothing else like it in Belleville or even in other nearby towns of much larger populations. It was not a hotel. Mr. Mulligan had introduced the first fine “family establishment” outside of the resort areas.
Tonight all the roofs glittered with hard snow under a bleak icy moon. All the windows glowed with golden light. Two, on the first floor, shimmered with rosy reflections from the huge fireplaces. Jason felt proud to belong to such an establishment. Yet he felt that something nameless was missing, and he did not know what it was. He contemplated the improved position of his family over these past four years. The man who had bought old Joe’s shop and building had hired Bernard to work there waiting on customers and cleaning the displays and the windows, for six hours a day six days a week. He was paid eight dollars a week, and was permitted to take home partially stale bread and other sundries. Bernard himself had painted the shop in a bright yellow trimmed with green, his favorite colors, and his arrangement of the one window was tastefully graced with offerings of pink ham, long Italian sausages, neatly polished secondhand shoes, and shining copper pots.
Bernard had demanded that John work also, after his school. He delivered both morning and evening newspapers, and worked on Saturdays in the office of a small factory. On occasion he also went there after school hours, to his distress. There was his homework, he would plead, and he needed his sleep. Bernard had only shrugged. “At your age, boyo, you need but four or five hours’ sleep a night. That is all I had when I was seventeen, in Ireland, when I was in the seminary studying for the priesthood. And my father, who was a teacher of astronomy in the University of Dublin, slept even less. Too much sleep makes a man fat and lazy and softens his brain. The world is too interesting to waste time in too much sleep. On with you.”
Kate had taught the protesting Joan to embroider artistically, and her linen doilies, dresser scarfs, and centerpieces were now on display at the shop, and sold well at good prices. Joan might murmur that she was “tired,” to which her grandfather would say with bluntness, “Tired of what, miss? Staring at your face in the mirror and dressing your hair, and eating? It’s time you helped your mother.” To Bernard every soul should work to its capacity, even the handicapped. So, added to the embroidery was another task for Joan: Bernard had negotiated with the new local manufacturer of “fine shirts for gentlemen” to permit Joan to do the dainty hand stitching necessary on visible seams, cuffs, and buttonholes.
“You’re helping your brother to go to his damned seminary, and that should comfort you,” Bernard had remarked with a not very affectionate grin. “All for God, and for that you have probably cut off a few years in purgatory.” This did not console Joan. She thought her crippled state should suffice to waft her into heaven immediately. Bernard had disillusioned her, he hoped. “You are no saint, Joanie, and you reek with the sins of selfishness, self-pity, vanity, and greed, and that you know in your heart—if you have a heart.”
Poor Kate was ailing, though her sweet smile was not extinguished. Her eyes were too bright, and her complexion had grown too vivid, and her chronic cough never was alleviated, despite bottles of Beef, Iron, and Wine. Bernard would watch her, brooding. He had compelled her to give up her laundry. “Money pouring in now,” he would say. “My money, Joan’s, Jack’s, and Jason’s. No need for you to work that hard. Enough to do at home.” She was very thin, much thinner than before, though Bernard would force her to eat the good food on the table. Joan and Jack loved plentiful quantities of milk, but Bernard limited them to half a glass a day and insisted that Kate drink a pint and a half herself. They did not like him the more for this, and considered themselves abused. After all, they worked, did they not? Mum did nothing but the housekeeping. Gas had been installed in the stove, and there were gas lamps, too. Why did Mum need all that food? She worked very little, they grumbled to each other. “One of these days she’ll be going to matinees and the nickelodeons, like other idle women,” John would mutter to his sister.
“Da bought her a beautiful store dress for Christmas,” Joan answered with resentment, “and a pair of kid button shoes and gloves. If he has all that money, why should we work so hard?”
Bernard did not agree with conservative doctors that “the consumption” was not contagious. Though it was a conspicuous Irish disease, the results of the past Famine, Bernard knew that Kate had contracted it from Peter, his son. So, without explanation, he had bought a cot for Joan and had placed it far from Kate’s bed, and he had gently taught Kate to cover her mouth when coughing and to burn the rags she used for sputum. “But they’re good cloths, Da,” she would say. Bernard would reply in a voice she did not protest, “Burn them, Katie. You never know.”
As Jason pedaled home this dark, very cold January night, he thought of all these things. The streets were empty. No one was about, though it was not yet half-past eight. The moon sailed in black emptiness. A far lonely dog barked. The bicycle wheels crunched loudly on the crust of snow. Suddenly Jason, without warning, was assailed by a terrible melancholy, profound and paralyzing. It was so intense that he had to halt, one foot on the slippery street.
He tried to understand this invading spiritual agony, but he saw no cause for it. It was only there, like an encasement of black stone over his spirit, which held him imprisoned and motionless. His thoughts vaguely scampered about in his skull like terrified mice, vainly looking for escape from the tenebrous gloom in which they raced. Jason could not catch them in their panic. He would think he had hold of one and then it slipped from him.
Things were so much better than they had been four years ago. Then why this amorphous sorrow of soul, this pressing weight on his chest, this wet burning of his eyes? He looked about him. He had halted near a clump of black firs close to the street. There was a hollow place under them, without light or even shadow, though a streetlamp was burning nearby, pale and yellow and flickering. Beyond the trees was only the blank staring of shut houses. He was alone. A kind of terror seized him. He was not a young man ready with prayers and incantations for comfort in a comfortless world. He was too pragmatic. But he mumbled aloud, “For what am I living?” This new thought was
a fresh assault on his soul, and his terror increased.
He still stared at the empty hollow under the trees. Then all at once he felt a “shifting,” a movement, though there was no movement anywhere. Suddenly, like a giant wave of light, he was engulfed in brilliance, though he did not see it with his mortal eyes. He was only aware of it, a glory, an opening, a vastness of being, of understanding, of love, of promise, of secret but incredible hope. Above all, of a tremendous love, supernatural, filled with eternity, without boundaries; personal, consoling, joyous, ecstatic. Warmth enveloped him, like embracing arms. He was not only released, but he felt an expanding, as if aware of his membership in something beyond life and duty and grimness and pain. He was swept, in that blinding glow, into rapture, tenderness, strength, and grandeur. Everything was explained, everything known, all terror lost, all peace encompassing.
He began to cry with happiness, wordlessly prayerful. He tried to hold it, but as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and there was only the lonely dark and the cold.
However, the melancholy and fear had left him, as if a parent had lifted him from a sightless bed and had held him and had told him something he could not remember and only knew.
He went on his way, but now smiling and singing aloud the Irish ballads his grandfather had taught him. He felt that the future was no longer menacing, but fulfilling, and he was part of it. Then, without his volition, he said aloud, “Our Father …” For the first time it had meaning. It was personal. It was protection. He was not alone. A “thing” now walked with him, was his eternal companion.
Bernard saw it at once when Jason entered the house. He saw the exaltation. If he had not known his grandson, he would have thought the youth drunk. Bernard had the spiritual understanding of the Irish, the occult awareness. “Something” had touched Jason. Bernard had heard of such occurrences, though he had not experienced them himself. The priests had talked of it, as the prerogative of saints. Jason was no saint. Yet, “it” had come to him as it had come four years ago. Bernard felt awe, and also fear. He could not ask Jason. Jason himself would not know. It was a visitation, a spiritual revelation.
No one else in the warm little house saw this. Joan, sipping her hot tea, was sadly contemplating her wrongs. John, as usual, was furtively devouring everything in sight, even lifting the slice of bread off his mother’s plate. His gaunt face, as always, was withdrawn, tight, and gray. His ascetic cheekbones gleamed in the gaslight; his fleshless fingers were deft and darting. He looked up quickly at Jason and said, “What did you bring us tonight?”
But Joan said with sharpness, “Where’s Lionel?”
Jason gave the weighty bag to his mother. He looked at his sister, hesitating. Lionel had again begged off for a night on the town. At last he said, under the stare of her suspicious but glorious eyes, “He couldn’t come.”
Her face changed darkly. “You mean you don’t think your friend is good enough for your crippled sister, so you didn’t mention I was expecting him tonight.”
The joy was faintly echoing in Jason, so he said with urgent kindness, “No. He just couldn’t come, Joanie. There was something he had to do. Honest. He’ll be here tomorrow, though.”
He saw that his sister was wearing her best blue Sunday dress, beautifully, embroidered by herself, and that her long hair was held back by a blue ribbon and that she wore the imitation-pearl beads. Bernard had given her for Christmas. Her beauty was supernal. Jason felt pity for her, and anger at Lionel. “He’ll be here tomorrow,” he repeated. Joan looked about to cry. She gave Jason a malevolent glance. “You’d do anything to make somebody unhappy. I know you, Jase. You hate your family, me and Jack. You plot to yourself all the time to make us miserable. I know you.”
Bernard pushed back his chair, and his great face was crimson: “You damned little snot!” he exclaimed. “You whining little besom! You should be thoroughly thrashed, for once in your life!”
“Da,” Kate implored.
“Katie, that colleen is a monster! She has no appreciation of the sacrifices of others. She sees only her face in a mirror, and what is that worth, then?” He glared at John, who was avidly exploring the bag Jason had brought home. “Hands off, bucko! You’re another one. Worthless. Katie, take the bag from him. We need it for our supper. If you don’t take it, it will disappear down his throat in a twinkling, for all he has had three servings of sauerkraut and potatoes and sausages, and half a loaf of bread.” Bernard snatched the bag from John’s grasping fingers. “Wish it would choke you,” he muttered, but everyone heard.
“A growing boy,” Kate pleaded.
“So is Jason, who works harder than anyone in this family.”
“I’ve had dinner,” said Jason, though he had not. The joy was fading from him, but all at once he saw his family with unfamiliar clarity. The faces of his mother and grandfather became brilliantly clear to him, as if light had been thrown upon them, and his joy was mixed with pain. He saw the truth of his brother and sister, then refused to see it. It would be too terrible. A man had to believe in his family. What else was there?
Bernard laid the contents of the bag on the table. A fourth of a ham, a dozen Parker House rolls, half a pound of butter not yet rancid, five baked potatoes, half a head of raw cabbage, a package of roast beef in slices—Jason had not wanted to take this, but the chef had told him it would be spoiled by tomorrow—a tin of boiled turnips with nutmeg and butter, a few apples, two oranges, a package of greasy bologna, an opened can of condensed milk, half a roast chicken with dressing left on someone’s plate, a paper of boiled brussels sprouts, a huge slice of cake, some slightly stale pastries. “A feast for us,” said Bernard.
“It’s Monday,” said Jason, taking off his coat. “It would be bad tomorrow.”
“So. Let us eat it, then,” said Bernard, licking his lips ostentatiously. “And what’s this? A half-bottle of wine!”
“I didn’t notice that,” said Jason. “The chef must have put it in.”
“Leftovers, for beggars,” said John, taking a large slice of ham.
“A disgrace,” said Joan, taking two of the pastries.
“A grace,” said Kate. “Thank you, Jason, dear.”
“Your boots, Jason,” said Bernard. “You need another pair. Get them tomorrow.”
John smirked at his sister. She shrugged delicately in reply. She began to eat with exaggerated gentility, as if every bite offended her.
Bernard said, “Katie, if you don’t share this magnificence, I will be very vexed with you.”
“I’m sure,” said Joan, “that Lionel doesn’t have to take scraps from other people’s plates to his house.”
Bernard laughed his harsh and grating laugh. “No, indeed. He’ll just take flesh from other people’s souls, that’s all. Or eat them alive.”
“He’ll be a success, not a drudge,” Joan said, with rare courage against her grandfather.
Jason listened with discomfiture. Then he had a thought. He turned to his grandfather. “I had an idea tonight. It was … something. I can’t remember …”
“You never had an idea in your life,” said John, taking a slice of roast beef.
Bernard looked at him. With a kind of fury he reached across the table and struck his grandson violently across his face. “And what have you but cant!” he shouted.
“Da,” said Kate, in tears.
Bernard lowered at her, but with love. “Katie, you have only one real child, one human being of a child. Jason. God love him.” He filled a tumbler with wine. He looked at Jason and his hard little gray eyes were very bright. “To Jason,” he said. “A toast from the heart. God bless you, boyo. You’ll need all the blessings you can get.”
Jason was embarrassed, but his heart lifted. He poured a glass of wine for his mother. “For Mum,” he said. He hesitated. “For all the good women in the world.”
“Amen,” said Bernard. The others said nothing, but Kate’s eyes were filled with light.
John touched his smarting fac
e. He seethed with hatred. What a boorish family for a priest! No wonder he had to pray so hard.
6
Father Sweeney, with trepidation, asked Bernard to see him in his study. Spring spread outside, all golden and exuberant.
“I am wondering,” said the young priest. “If John has a true vocation.”
“For the Spanish Inquisition, yes,” said Bernard heartily. “What is the trouble?”
“He is too scrupulous, Bernard.”
“You mean he condemns practically everything.”
Father Sweeney stroked his rapidly thinning auburn hair with a hesitant hand. He lifted a letter from his elderly desk. “I have a letter here from the seminary in Pittsburgh where John is studying for the priesthood. Father O’Connell. He mentions that John is a most exemplary seminarian, in terms of faith and hope …” The priest paused again.
Bernard said, “But he doesn’t know the meaning of love.” When Father Sweeney did not answer, Bernard went on, “But I knew that from the time he was in nappies. Strange that others didn’t seem to know.”
The priest was pained. “We thought as he grew older that he would learn, from example, in the seminary.”
“Hah,” said Bernard. “Minds me of some of the old—the old—priests in my seminary where I was studying for the priesthood, in Ireland.”
As Father Sweeney was also “minded” of certain old priests he had encountered in his own seminary, he grew more and more uncomfortable. “Well, then, Bernard. It is not only that. John doesn’t seem to comprehend the difference between venial and mortal sins. Intellectually, yes. Otherwise, no. He seems to believe, most of the time, that there are no venial, that is, ordinary human daily sins. All sins are deadly.”
“And a worse sinner I never met,” said Bernard.
Father Sweeney chose to ignore that. “We’ve spoken before of his extreme scrupulosity. He … he was found wearing a hair shirt.”
Answer as a Man Page 10
