Studs Lonigan (17 page)

They stopped for sodas, and Mr. O'Brien bought them each two. Studs could have caught his old man buying a kid two sodas like that. While they were sitting with their sodas, Old Man O'Brien told them of the things of yesteryear, and of plays he'd taken Johnny's mother to. One was called
Soudan
, given way back in about 1903, and was it a humdinger! They killed forty-five men in the first act. Was it a play! They had shipwrecks at sea, and what not, and when the shooting started half of the audience held their heads under the seats until it ended, and when the villain came on the stage everyone kept going ss! ss! And the dime novels, and Nick Carter! But times had changed. Times had changed. Even kids weren't like they used to be, they had none of the old feeling of other times, they didn't have that old barefoot-boy attitude, and they weren't as tough, either, and they didn't hang around knotholes at the ball park to see the great players, not the ones around Indiana anyway. Times had changed.

They drove around. At one place, Mr. O'Brien had to see a sheeny and explain why the coal delivery had been late. The fellow talked like a regular Oi Yoi Yoi, waving his arms in front of him like he was in the signal corps of the U. S. Army. He protested, but Old Man O'Brien gave him a long spiel, and as they were leaving, the guy all but kissed Johnny's father. When they drove on, O'Brien said to the kids:

“You got to soft soap some of these Abie Kabbibles.”

He winked at them and they laughed. Studs kept thinking of his old man and Johnny's, and dreaming of being a kid like Mr. O'Brien had been and wishing that his gaffer was more like Mr. O'Brien. . . . Well, anyway, he wasn't as bad as High Collars.

It had been a great afternoon, though.

That night when Studs was ready to go out, he walked into the parlor. The old man and the old lady were sitting there, and the old boy was in his slippers sucking on a stogy; and the two of them were enjoying a conversation about the latest rape case in the newspapers in which the rapist was named Gogarty. Studs noticed that when he entered they shut up. He wondered what the hell did they think he was. Did they think he was born yesterday, and still believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Rabbit and storks? He wanted to tell them so, tell them in words that would show how much of a pain they gave him when they treated him as if he was only a baby. But the words wouldn't come; they almost never came to him when he wanted them to. He stood swallowing his resentment.

The old man said:

“You know, Bill, a fellow ought to come home some time. Now when I was your age, when I was your age, I know I liked to get out with the fellows, and that's why I can understand how you feel about bein' a regular guy, and bein' with the bunch, and I don't want you to think I'm always pickin on you, or preachin' to you, or tryin' to make you into a mollycoddle, because I ain't. I know a kid wants a little liberty, because I was your age once . . . BUT . . .”

Studs got Goddamn sore. He knew what was coming. The old man always worked the same damn gag.

“You see, Bill, you're stayin' out pretty late, and you know, well, it's as your mother says, the neighbors will be thinkin' things, wonderin' if we, the landlords here, set a good example for our children, and live decently, an' if we are takin' the right sort of care of our children. I'm the owner of this here building, you see, and I got to have a family that sets the right kind of an example. Now what do you think they'll think if they see you comin' in so late every evenin', comin' in night after night after most respectable people have gone to bed?”

“But what is it their business?” asked Studs.

“And, William, you know you have to look out for your health. Now what will you do if you go on getting little sleep like you do? You know you should get to bed early. Why, this very day in the newspapers, there was an article saying that sleep gotten before twelve o‘clock was better and healthier sleep than sleep gotten after midnight. You're wearing yourself out, and you're wearin' out me, your mother, because I worry over you, because I can't let my baby get tuberculosis,” the mother said.

“I'm all right; I'm healthy,” Studs said.

“Well, I think, Bill, I think a fellow could get enough play all day and until ten o'clock at night. You always want to remember that there'll be another day,” the old man said oracularly.

Studs said that all kids stayed out, sitting on someone's porch, or in the grass in front of someone's house, talking, and there wasn't anything wrong with it, because it was so nice in the evening. And the other kids' fathers didn't care. Mr. O'Brien never kicked about Johnny being out, and Johnny O'Brien was younger than he was.

“If Johnny O'Brien jumps in the river, do you have to?”

That was the way his old man always was!

Studs just stood there. The old man told him to save something for another day. Studs sulked, and told himself there wasn't any use arguing with his old man and old lady. They just didn't understand.

The old man brought out a Lefty Locke baseball book, which he had bought for Studs and forgotten to give him. He said it would be a good thing if Studs stayed in and read it. Studs ought to do more reading anyway, because reading always improved a person's mind. Studs sat down, pouted, and read the book for about ten minutes. But Lefty Locke wasn't anything at all like Rube Waddell; it was a goofy book. He fidgeted. Then he said hesitantly that he'd like to take a little walk, and the old man, disappointed, said all right.

When Studs met the guys, he told them that he'd won a scrap with the old man. That evening they played tin-tin with the girls, and Studs kissed Lucy. It made him forget that his old man and his old lady and home weren't what sisters and priests made them out to be at school and at Mass on Sundays.

It was a hot early July afternoon, and life, along Indiana Avenue, was crawlingly lazy. A brilliant sun scorched the impoverished trees and sucked energy from the frail breezes that simpered off a distant Lake Michigan.

The gang had all gone swimming, and Studs had not felt like going home for his suit. Danny O'Neill was at the corner of Fifty-eighth, playing a baseball game by himself with a golf ball. He threw the ball at the ledge on the side of Levin's tiled wall. Every time it struck the ledge, and the rebound was caught, a run was counted. Every throw was a time at bat. Danny played away, happy and contented by himself. Studs stood across the street, hands on hips, watching, shaking his head because he couldn't make out goofy O'Neill. He could have such a swell time by himself, playing some goofy baseball game or other or just sitting down playing knife. Danny was such a crack knife player that no one would play pull the peg with him. He was goofy, though. Studs crossed the street and said:

“Hello, Goof!”

They played the baseball game, and Danny beat Studs four times. Studs didn't like to get beat at anything, so he quit playing. He pulled Danny's cap over his eyes, almost bending the punk's glasses, and said:

“You're dizzy!”

He started tip-tapping with the kid, telling him that he was a good young battler but needed training. Studs said he was going to train Danny so he could lick any punk in the neighborhood. They tiptapped. Studs let loose a rough slap, telling Danny he had to learn to take it. The slap hurt, but Danny bit his lip and didn't cry. They sparred, tapping easily. Danny stepped around Studs and slapped him with lefts. Studs hauled off, and let Danny have a pretty stiff one. Danny bit his lip. He was the kid who could take punishment, so he didn't cry. Studs put his hands on his hips, and looked surprised at the shrimp, as if to say, Christ, but you're goofy. They sparred on, and Studs kept hauling off on Danny, training him to take punishment. Then Studs told O'Neill he'd show him some tricks in scientific fighting. Studs got on tip-toe, danced and lumbered around, and almost fell over his own feet. So he gave the punk a vicious slap in the puss. Breathless, they paused.

“You're good! you kin clean up any of the punks around here, even ivory-domed Andy Le Gare. None of them can hurt you,” Studs said.

“It's because I know how to breathe. You see, when the kids fight, they breathe out of their mouths, and they lose their wind, quick; while I breathe out of my nose and save my wind, and we fight until they are winded, and I win. That's the way I beat Andy,” Danny said.

Studs said Danny was a goof. The reason he could fight was that he was so goofy that he couldn't be hurt. They sparred a little more, but Studs had lost interest in training Danny. They talked.

“Say, did you ever hear of Rube Waddell?”

“Sure, I got an autographed ball from him.”

“Don't goof me. You're too young to have got it.”

“Well, he gave it to my uncle for me when he was playing in the American Association, and I got it at home. He was the greatest left-hander in the game, and I know Stuffy McInnis, the greatest first baseman in the game. He gives me balls when the Athletics are here,” said Danny.

Studs said the Rube was no good. Danny didn't have any right to have a ball from Rube Waddell. Studs walked away, sore. He walked down to Fifty-seventh Street, furtively looked around to see if anyone saw him, and when the coast was clear he sniped a butt from the street. He walked back, smoking it. Then he met Lucy, returning from the store with an armful of groceries. He carted them for her. As they walked slowly back toward her house, Studs had some of the old feeling he had had on that March day. She asked him what he was going to do, and he said he didn't know, but he thought he might take a walk over the Washington Park playground, and fool around if that old crab Mr. Hall didn't kick him out. She told him it was a good idea, because she thought she'd go to the park, and they could walk over together. She said Mr. Hall was a mean old frog. Studs told himself that it was swell, and he was in luck. He told Lucy that he guessed they could walk together at that. He became suddenly leery and uncertain, because a guy could never be sure when he was, and when he wasn't, saying the right thing to a girl; he felt that he should have said something different to her; he hoped that he hadn't said anything that would make her sore and change her mind so she wouldn't go to the park with him. He waited and worried while she went into the house, and it took a long time, so that he got nervous and was afraid she wasn't coming, but he waited anyway. He heard some young kids in the Shires' gangway, Helen's kid sister, a couple of her girl friends, and a ten-year-old punk named Norman something or other. They were talking about having a show party in one of the basements across the street. They enthusiastically agreed to, and they ran across the street, looking quite cute and innocent. Studs watched them skip, and said to himself with a quizzical look on his face:

Jesus Christ!

He scowled, scratched his head and asked himself if he should tell Helen Shires. He decided not to, because he hated any kind of a snitcher. He laughed to himself, thinking how funny it was, and what a knockout of a story it would be for Dan and the guys if they would promise not to pass it on. He thought of his kid sister, Fritzie, telling himself that she wouldn't never do a thing like that. If he ever found her doing it, he'd certainly boot her tail around the block until she couldn't walk straight. But then, he guessed there was something in Catholic girls that made them different from other girls. Now, there was Helen Shires; she was fine, just like a pal or a guy's best friend; but then, there was something different and purer in a girl like Lucy which stopped her from talking about the things he and Helen talked about. Yes, sir, he was pretty certain about that something purer in Catholic girls. He laughed, because the little kids had been so funny. He thought about going over and peeking in on their party, but just then he saw Lucy.

She came out wearing a reddish-orange wash dress which looked nice on her, because she was dark, curly-haired, with red-fair skin, and the dress set her off just right. And she had on a little powder and lipstick, but it didn't make her look like a sinful woman or anything of that sort. Studs didn't usually pay attention to how girls looked, except to notice the shape of their legs, because if they had good legs they were supposed to be good for you-know, and if they didn't they weren't; and to notice their boobs, if they were big enough to bounce. He looked at Lucy. She was cute, all right. He told himself that she was cute. He told himself that he liked her. He repeated to himself that he liked her, and she was cute. His heart beat faster, and he scarcely knew what he was doing.

They strolled east on Fifty-seventh Street. A Negro nursemaid came along with a bow-legged baby, and Lucy made a fuss over it; Studs thought it was a pain, but he decided that girls were girls, and if they were like Lucy, they must be higher creatures that a guy just couldn't understand, no matter how much he tried. He pretended that he was interested in the darling tot, but it gave him a pain. They strolled on, and Studs kept side-glancing at angelic Lucy, straining his mind to think of something to say. He said that it was a nice day, all right. She agreed. He said that it was the kind of a day that made a fellow want to do nothing, and she said yes. She said she liked doing nothing. Studs said that usually he didn't like doing nothing, but now he felt different from the way he felt on most days. He said that there was too much for a guy to do to want to do just nothing; he told her some of the things a kid could do, instead of doing nothing; he told her how he, Red O'Connell, and the gang had gotten Red's beebe gun, and had stood on Red's porch, shooting pigeons, and he had killed the most, three; and how Red had shot Muggsy McCarthy in the pa . . . . the back, and Muggsy didn't know who shot him, and it was funny, and then Red had gotten his old man's Chalmers, and they had gone riding, and Red had stepped on it, and they had gone down South Park Avenue fifty miles an hour, and they had kept shooting away, trying to break windows, and they had broken five or six of them. She said it was just horrid, and that boys just wanted to make mischief; as Sister Bernadette Marie always said, boys had the germ of destruction in them, and they did perfectly awful, horrid things; but she said it just like a girl, meaning the exact opposite.