The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [382]
Freeing himself from her arms, he sat erect, and thought, Jesus, if somebody should come by now. Embarrassed and ashamed, he stood up with his back to her, buttoned himself, pressed down his hair, fingered his tie. Shyly, she turned, pulled down and smoothed her wrinkled dress, hooked up her stockings, pushed back her disarranged hair.
He slouched down beside her on the bench and looked at the black wall of bushes opposite, a narrow and uneven stream of moonlight unexpectedly flowing through them while a slight wind scratched the leaves. He shifted his glance, and partially closed his eyes to get a different sight of the bushes. He made an effort of lighting a cigarette.
Catherine sniffled.
“Bill,” she sobbed.
Studs turned toward her, frightened, and took her hand.
“Bill, dear, I can’t stand this. I can’t go on sneaking the way we got to, as if this was something awful between us, afraid of being caught or seen by somebody, having to be ashamed of doing this when we love each other, and have to be sneaking about it in the park and in my hallway. And even that awful time in the taxicab. I can’t stand even the idea of it, and if we were caught by someone, some stranger, I’m afraid I’d even kill myself.”
“Kid .. .” he said, looking down at her while she sobbed with her head against his shoulder. He had no other words to utter. Puzzled, he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Bill, we got to get married!”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“But won’t it seem a little queer to everybody? And it will take a little time for us to get ready, won’t it? We’ll have to have the banns published and fix things up.”
“Tomorrow morning we can go to mass together, and right after mass we’ll go to see Father Geoghan, and make arrangements then.”
“Well... but ... ”
“Bill, darling, I can’t stand this sneaking and skulking. And it’s not right. It’s a sin this way, and it can’t be really wrong and sinful, because I love you. I love you so much!”
He was embarrassed and gratified by the way she flung her arms around him and kissed him, and still, he didn’t know what to say.
“Kid,” he said hoarsely.
“You love me?”
“Yes,” he said, the reply coming as if it had been propelled out of his mouth by force.
“You mean it?”
He looked at her, nodded, leaned over, kissed her, held and patted her hand. He looked moodily away.
“Because I’ve been afraid to tell you, and now I’ve got to,” she said.
He turned back to her, his face pallid in the darkness and moonlight, its expression trapped in worry and surprise. He glanced away again, then back at her, just as her round face was cross-cut by an exposure of moonlight.
“Something has happened to me,” she said, looking aside.
“What?” he snapped out quickly in a choking voice, while at the same time, as if in a split part of himself, he was beginning to see his predicament as a drama filled with seriousness and importance.
“You know, Bill,” she said, seeming to him like a soft, frightened, utterly helpless thing in his arms, “you know, I’m afraid that I’m going to have a baby.”
Her head lowered, as in shame and modesty. She took and held the fingers in his right hand.
Jesus Christ! he thought to himself, even though he had guessed what she had to say from the way she’d led up to it.
“Can’t we do something about it?” he asked.
“What?”
“See a doctor. Or maybe I can get some medicine to take care of it.”
Looking up at him, she dabbed her eyes quickly, and he could see that she was fighting not to cry.
“Bill, darling, that’s awful. We can’t do that.”
“But why?” he asked, his voice shaky, puzzled.
He tried to substitute a persuasive glance for the convincing words which he could not bring forth. He drew her gently against his shoulder, feeling the quivering of her warm and nervous body. Her fear made him feel strong and brave, and he began to feel a sense of power