The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [356]
Hell, no use arguing with his mother. When she set her mind on something, there was nothing to be done and that was the end of it. He broke a slice of bread and buttered it.
“When did this trouble start?”
“There wasn’t any real trouble.”
“But you’re not seeing her. Certainly there must have been trouble or you’d be seeing her. Before this quarrel you were seeing her almost every night, and the two of you were always hanging on the telephone.”
“I might be seeing her tonight,” Studs said to halt the talk. wishing that his words were true.
He arose from the table.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Son, can’t you wait until the rain lets up?” she asked, and he could see the disappointment on her face.
“It won’t hurt me,” he said, quickly leaving the kitchen before his mother could continue pumping him.
II
Studs dallied by the drug store entrance with soggy feet, blankly watching people pass the rain-swept corner of Seventy-first and Jeffrey. Quarter after eleven. He could wait a minute and get clear in his mind just what he would say to her. When she’d say hello, he’d say something like how are you, this is Studs. Then he would go right on and say: Listen, there’s no use of going on like this. We ought to talk it over. But suppose she slammed the receiver in his ear, or politely told him there wasn’t anything to talk over. He couldn’t stand to risk a thing like that.
He shouldn’t have come out. As soon as he got home, he’d soak his feet in hot water and drink some more hot tea. Couldn’t catch cold with his health and bum heart. He could call and pretend that someone had called when he was out, and ask had she called. And that would give her a chance to break the ice if she wanted to, and it would leave him a loophole to crawl out, and if she then said anything about his trying to make up, he’d have his excuse to show it wasn’t so. He just couldn’t take the risk of her cutting him cold. That was all.
He watched a man run stiff-legged around the corner onto Jeffrey. An Upton Oil Company truck rumbled over the railroad tracks. A stout flat-footed woman pushed toward the bank, her head hidden under an umbrella.
He guessed it would be better to wait until she was home. She wouldn’t be able to talk much anyway from the office, because there were people listening in. He could catch the next downtown train and get down in front of the office building when she came out to lunch. That would be the best idea. It was easier to settle a thing seeing a person than over the telephone. He lit a cigarette and thought of how she seeing him, her face would pop with surprise. Then perhaps she’d smile and it would all be over. The bells rang, the gates lowered. People were running to catch the train. It rocketed into the station. Hell, no use to go down in all this rain. And if he did that and she passed him up he would be sunk. Couldn’t bend too far with a girl, or she’d lose all respect for you.
If only he could meet her by accident somewhere, then his hands would be clean. He wouldn’t then give her the impression that he was coming on bended knees, with his hat in his hand to get the thing patched up.
Maybe she would telephone him tonight, if she saw he was determined. If she could stand to let it go on, and he called up, he would just show all his cards. Then she’d think that he’d only been making a bum gesture when he’d walked away from her. Best thing to do was to go home, read a few nice stories, listen in on the radio, and sit tight. Let her come around. If she didn’t think he was worth coming around to, well, maybe it was just as well to let it go smash.,
McGoorty, with a shiny, black, caped raincoat, slopping along. How did they let such a dumb bastard on the force?
It would be dumb sitting home all afternoon, and the old lady would keep after him with questions about the scrap with Catherine. Mrs. George Jackson. That was the ticket. Nothing could be sweeter than a warm dame like her on a cold and rainy day. He pulled out his wallet.