The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [293]
“Martin still out?”
Studs nodded, and turned to the back page, his eye catching the picture in the upper left-hand corner, a scene from the day’s Red riots, with a fallen man in the foreground, against an indistinct background of struggling figures. Over the fallen man on the left was a policeman with a raised club, and on his right a hefty detective in dark overcoat and gray suit who had, when the picture was snapped, just completed making a swinging punch at the fallen man. He glanced at the next photograph showing a young girl, seated, blond, with crossed legs and one knee in sight, who had just married a sixty-eight-year-old millionaire. Good legs. Nice. Poor old bastard of a husband, too old for such nice stuff.
“Bill, there’s something I want to speak to you about,” the father said in a heavy voice, and Studs looked up from the newspaper, noticing that his father was embarrassed by what he had to say... “Bill... how much money have you got in the bank?”
“Why?” Studs asked, taken aback, immediately wishing that he had said something different, because his father flinched at his question.
“Bill, I never thought that I would have to ask any of my children for a cent, but lots of things happen that we never counted upon.” Lonigan disconsolately wagged his head. “I’m afraid I’m going to need money goddamn bad. I haven’t told your mother how bad things look to me, but they are bad. They’re fierce. I’ve got to figure out how much I can rely on in a pinch. Well, I might as well tell you the whole story. I’ve got some stocks. I bought them on margin about two years ago, and I’ve had to keep feeding money into my broker so I wouldn’t get sold out. I’ve pulled through this far, but I don’t know what’s ahead of me. And then about four months ago I got a hot tip on a stock, so I bought a little of it on margin, and that leaves me pretty worried now, because my stock hasn’t gone up like I supposed it would. So you see, with it, and with the mortgage, and running expenses, and every damn thing that comes along, I’m in a pickle, and I want to figure out how much I can rely on in case I need it, and in case you’re willing to loan money to your father.”
“Why, of course, Dad. I got two thousand. When will you need it?” Studs said heedlessly, and instantly he regretted the lie and couldn’t understand why he hadn’t mentioned the stock.
“That’s fine of you, Bill. and well, you know, it gives me a great feeling of pride to have a son like you.”
“Things are bound to get better, dad,” Studs said with suppressed emotion.
“It’s those goddamn Jew international bankers. And Bill, it ain’t fair. It ain’t right that a man should have so much worry and trouble in his old age, after working as hard as I have all my life and providing so well for my family. Your mother and I have earned the right to peace and comfort in our old age,” Lonigan protested.
Not knowing what to reply, Studs nodded agreement.
“I might just have to call on you, so I wanted to mention this matter in advance,” Lonigan said, sinking down in his chair, his chin lowering against his chest. Studs wished there was something he could say to help make his old man buck up.”
But suppose the old man asked for the money. Well, he could sell, pocket his loss, and let him have the rest. He asked himself why a guy’s life had to be one damn thing to worry about after another, and why wasn’t a guy never done with deciding things. Always, time after time, as soon as one thing was settled, and the worry erased, another thing popped up. A guy no sooner skirted out of one pickle than he had fallen into another one. It seemed as if almost every minute of a fellow’s life a knife was swinging over his neck, ready to slash into him at any unsuspected moment. When he’d been a kid, it had been the same, trouble at home, worry about school, something, and he had wished for the time when he grew up, because then he’d be free and not always having worries and dangers on his mind like so many