The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [271]
He felt her and pressed against his side, through his overcoat, and they heard muffled voices from the city behind them. The lake odors were pungent, and the wind rubbed their faces like a brush with sharp fibrous hairs. They heard the rolling waves and the crashing waters against the wooden breakwaters and stones, the recession of the undercurrent, and far out Studs watched the glimmering red lighthouse signal, blinking. Down to their left, the lights of the Municipal Pier were strung like floating lanterns. Again, he told himself that from this night on, Studs Lonigan was starting. He was going down the field, hitting the line like cement, bowling over anything and everything that got in his way, Studs Lonigan was. He saw now that even with the many good times he had had, much of his past life had been foolish, much of his time had been wasted, and he had almost wasted himself and his health. He had nearly put himself in the same boat with the Haggertys, Tommy Doyle, and Slug, Lord have mercy on their souls. Now he saw. Now he was ready for the real fight of his life, and he would have Catherine at his side, just as his old man had always had his mother.
Suddenly he became weak and limp with the let-down from his thoughts. His throat seemed to have tightened up, obstructing speech. Feeling the necessity of doing something, he lit a cigarette in the wind. The wind, colder and stronger than it had been over near Michigan Boulevard, wrapped their coats tightly about their knees. Smoking became too difficult, so Studs tossed his cigarette away. They bent their heads and shoulders forward, hastening. Suddenly, she stopped and tugged at his arms. As he turned, the closed her eyes and turned her head up at him. He kissed her, the touch of her lips seeming like an exaltation that he would never forget. He gripped her tightly and they clung to each other in an embrace made awkward because of their coats.
“If someone in an automobile turns a headlight in our direction, they’ll see us,” he said when they had freed themselves; he was shy and embarrassed and he breathed rapidly. She smiled.
“Let them!” he said gruffly, feeling reckless and pulling her to him with awkward haste.
“You know what?” she asked, after recovering her breath.
“What?” he asked, the word gushing out of his mouth.
“I love you!”
They walked swiftly to the lake and stood on the jagged breakwater rocks, his left arm encircling her waist. Foaming with noisy whitecaps, the waters came in with a rush, pounded, dragged outward to the visible wall of darkness and mist. A path of moonlight, like a gleaming aisle, slanted over the water, away from them. Listening to the waves, and perceiving their merciless and resilient strength as they smashed into the breakwater and lifted, he felt how weak he himself was, how weak, perhaps, anybody must feel standing here. He felt that for years, and forever onward until the Day of Judgment, these waves would be pounding and smashing, day and night.
“It’s cold,” she