The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [35]
“My father and mother say that it’s all right what you believe, so long as you live up to that belief and don’t do nothin’ that’s really wrong, or really hurt your neighbor, and if you do that, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about from God,” Helen said.
“Well, you know, it seems funny. Last night I was thinkin’. I remembered how I thought all the time that I’d feel so different after graduation. But now! Well, I’m just... I don’t know. When I was a punk in the first grade, I used to look up to the guys ahead of me and feel that eighth-grade kids were so big, and now when I’m graduated I still wish I was bigger, and I don’t feel satisfied, like I used to think I would when I was only a punk,” Studs said.
“That’s just the way I sort of feel.”
“Yeh... but, oh, well,” said Studs.
He felt that there was something else to be said, but he didn’t know how to say it; he wondered if he was blowing his gab off too much. Sometimes, with Helen, he could talk more, and say more of what he really meant, than he could with any other person.
“Yeh,” said Helen, meaningfully.
He glanced at her; he told himself that she was nice-looking. He felt soft inside, as if his feelings were all fluid, all melting up and running through him like a warm stream of water. He didn’t know what he ought to say. He hurriedly glanced across the street. He saw Dennis P. Gorman tote his cane and his dignity down Indiana Avenue on his way to the police court. He laughed at High-Collars; and Helen said her father always called Gorman a mollycoddle who ought to be wearing corsets.
“You know, we’ll have to take a look at that can house sometimes,” Studs said, because he felt that he had better say something.
“Yeh!”
“I’d like to know what’s inside of a can house,” said Studs.
He was calmed down again, and he could look at her without feeling strange, and he wasn’t in danger of giving his feelings away. He noticed that she, too, had been looking away.
“Well, I suppose one of those places has got a lot of expensive furniture, and the whores all sit around in their underclothes and maybe they drink a lot, and you know,” she said.
“I’d sure like to see one some time,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Maybe we can sneak up on the porch sometimes,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“We might see someone doin’ it, too,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s so much,” said he.
“All the kids act as if they knew, but I’ll bet that none of them really do,” she said.
“I guess you’re right.”
She told him of the time that her dog, Billie, had cut its nose, and had accidentally rubbed a little blood on her night-gown. Her mother had seen the blood spot, and had gotten excited, and had tried to explain to Helen what things were all about, but Helen had known what her mother told her; and her mother hadn’t told about the thing that was the real bother; her mother hadn’t said a word of what it really felt like. As Helen told this to Studs, he got all excited, and seemed to see her before him, melting and fading. He felt like he’d have to do something, and he was afraid to try.
“Say, wouldn’t it be nicer back in the playhouse?” he said, keeping his voice under control as much as he could.
“We can’t go back and sit there now. My sister Marion and her girl chums are in it,” she said.
“Oh!” he said.
Nothing had seemed wrong in his asking, he guessed. So they sat there and talked. Helen asked him if he knew this Iris who took all kinds of guys up to her house when her mother wasn’t home, and let them all have a gang-shag. Studs said he didn’t know his, but he’d heard of her. Helen said that was going too far; it was like being a whore. Studs said yes.
But he wished he could horn in on one of those