The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [340]
Martin asleep there, breathing so easily, he didn’t know how lucky he was. Studs rolled to the left side of the bed, looked vacantly out of the window, unaware of his thoughts still rolling around and around in his mind, seeing the sky, clouds, black buildings, as if in sleep. Suddenly he opened his eyes widely, sat up terrifyingly awake, afraid without knowing why. He lay back, laughed at himself, blankly held his eyes on the black ceiling. Jesus Christ, sleep, sleep, sleep. He bit his nails, scratched his head, asked himself was he going nuts. He turned on his right side, sank his eyes against his arm muscles, realized how dry, dull, tired, he was. In the morning if he only felt different. This was like having crabs on the brain. He heard an automobile pass outside, then Martin’s regular breathing, then footsteps on the street.
Sleep, Jesus, anything so that he would just feel less alone.
CHAPTER TEN
I
Blinking his eyes, Studs stared up and down the sunny street as if there was something interesting to see. He felt dopey from his restless night. But anyway, it was a quarter to eleven, and most of the morning, at least, was killed. He wished that he’d caught Martin before the kid had gone out. They could have bummed around today. If he was with somebody it would be easier to keep his mind off Catherine. She hadn’t telephoned, either, as he’d kind of hoped. Well ..
An old man came toward him on shaky, twitching legs, leaning on a heavy cane with every step. Studs observed his dried and wrinkled face, his watery eyes, his drooling, quivering lips, his tight, death-like skin, the sack of flesh under the chin. Seeing the poor old duffer was like seeing death.
“Good morning, Mr. Dingby,” Studs said.
“Eh?”
“I said good morning, Mr. Dingby,” he repeated loudly. Studs saw purplish gums as the old man laughed. With a blue-veined hand, he feebly poked Studs’ ribs.
“Eh... they don’t wear pants nowadays. He! He! He!”
Studs left old man Dinghy leaning on his cane, his body jittering with palsied laughter. The sight of the old man was just too much. And how did such a fellow feel, knowing that there wasn’t any life left in him, that he couldn’t ever walk straight like a healthy man, eat a decent meal, ever again enjoy a fast and sweet jazz? All over but the shouting. And some day he, Studs Lonigan, might be like that. He shuddered.
Would Catherine telephone him while he was out? If so, it would leave him in a strong position and still give him a good excuse for calling her up. It might keep her worrying and he guessed that that was the best way to treat a girl. Then she wouldn’t get the idea that she could ride all over a guy on her high horse.
He sauntered along to Seventy-first and Jeffrey, and bought a package of cigarettes and a telephone slug at the chain drug store. He walked out of the telephone booth, disappointed with his mother’s message that no one had telephoned him. Catherine was showing just too damn much crust, and if she could act like that, it just showed that she didn’t give two hoots in hell for him. Just as well to find it out now rather than after getting married.
But what should he do?
He walked by several store fronts, and halted at the entrance to a shoe store.
“Hello,” said a beefy young policeman whom Studs had seen before, while Studs stood slumped, looking emptily at the people passing along the street.
“How are you?” he answered as if he knew the cop, anxious to talk with him.
“I’ve seen you around