The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [51]
They sat. Studs swinging his legs, and Lucy swinging hers, she chattering, himself not listening to it, only knowing that it was nice, and that she laughed and talked and was like an angel, and she was an angel playing in the sun. Suddenly, he thought of feeling her up, and he told himself that he was a bastard for having such thoughts. He wasn’t worthy of her, even of her fingernail, and he side-glanced at her, and he loved her, he loved her with his hands, and his lips, and his eyes, and his heart, and he loved everything about her, her dress, and voice, and the way she smiled, and her eyes, and her hair, and Lucy, all of her. He sat, swinging his legs, restless, happy, and yet not so happy, because he was afraid that he might be acting like a droop, or he might be saying or doing something to make her mad. He wanted the afternoon never to end, so that he and Lucy could sit there forever; her hands stole timidly into his, and he forgot everything in the world but Lucy.
“Isn’t it awfully nice here?” she said.
“Yeah!” gruffed he.
He wanted to say more, and he couldn’t. He wanted to let her know about all the dissolving, tingling feelings he was having, and how he felt like he might be the lagoon, and the feelings she made inside of him were like the dancing feelings and the little waves the sun and wind made on it; but those were things he didn’t know how to tell her, and he was afraid to, because maybe he would spoil them if he did. He couldn’t even say a damn thing about how it all made him want to feel strong and good, and made him want to do things and be big and brave for her.
His tongue stuck in his mouth.
They sat swinging their legs.
And Time passed through their afternoon like a gentle, tender wind, and like death that was silent and cruel. They knew they ought to go, and they sat. Accumulating shadows raked the scene which commenced to blur beneath them. They sat, and about them their beautiful afternoon evaporated, split up and died like the sun that was dying a red death in the calm sky. Lucy said that it was getting late, and she had better be going. Studs told her to wait just a little while longer. She insisted that she had to go. They sat, and Lucy puckered her lips. Studs kissed her. She stroked his hair, and it was even nicer than the wind, and she said that she liked him bushels and bushels. She said that she had to go, and she sat swinging her legs so that he could notice them; and they had a nice shape, too. She pointed to another baby. Studs thought of how babies were born, and he blushed. She asked him what he was doing, and offered a penny for his thoughts. He said be wasn’t doing nothing, only looking, not thinking. He again thought of feeling her up, and again it made him feel like he was a dirty bastard.
They sat, and more precious minutes were squeezed, drained dry. Whey they finally climbed down, the sun was dead in the sky. They hurried home, half-running, not speaking. Leaving the park at Fifty-seventh, they saw Sunny Green and Shorty Leach playing tennis, lamming the ball at each other in the half darkness, playing and volleying better than most men could. Lucy asked him if he could play tennis better than the two kids, and he said yes. He was sorry he told her such a lie, almost before the words were out of his mouth, just like he felt pretty lousy because he had exaggerated the story about how he and the guys had gone riding in Red O’Connell’s car, shooting beebes. He promised to teach her how to play tennis. They parted in front of her house at a quarter to eight. She stood a moment on the porch, smiling at him through the summer dusk; and the spray from the sprinkler on her lawn tapped his cheeks; the boy, Studs, saw and