The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [55]
Lib spied the park sheep and was after them. The sheep milled and bleated, and Lib tore circles around them, running like an efficient sheep dog. The cop again appeared, waddling on his defective feet. The dog ran at the sound of the cop’s voice. It was too wise for the cop, Studs thought, and laughed. Coady yelled at Studs, complaining, in his Irish brogue, that he wished he’d keep that dog of his away. It was a disturbance of the peace, with it always scaring the sheep, jumping up and getting ladies’ dresses muddy, and running around without a leash and muzzle, all against the law. Suppose the dog went mad and bit a baby. The next time he saw the dog, he would shoot it. It was too damn troublesome, and too damn wise.
“Sure it knows I’m after it, and runs when I come,” Coady said in an Irish brogue.
Studs said it wasn’t his dog.
“Well, then, bejesus, whose dog is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, keep it away from here, or sure it’ll be a dead dog.”
The sun was too much for Coady. He flatfooted it back to the shade. Studs laughed. It was always fun to see a copper stumped. The dog was gone now, on its way home. Studs walked, wishing he had a dog of his own, because you could have fun with a dog, particularly when you were lonesome. A dog was almost human, and a guy was always wishing he could get closer to it, speak to it, understand what it meant when it barked. It was pretty the way the dog looked at you, the way it ran and cocked its ears. It got a guy. A dog was a real friend, all right. But his old man wouldn’t have a dog, because he said dogs were dirty, and his mother said they brought bad luck into the house, because sometimes dogs were the souls of people, who had put a curse on you, come back to life.
He walked around the park, and didn’t meet anyone he knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
In summer, the days went too fast. They raced. In June, right after his graduation, Studs had had no sense of the passing days. And now July was almost gone, and the days were racing toward September and school. He remembered the Fourth; he had spent it with the Indiana gang, lighting firecrackers under tin cans to watch them pop.
It had promised to be a great summer for him and it was turning out pretty punk. And now it was one of those days, like the ones that came so often in mid-August. It was hot, but there was no sun; and the wind sounded like there were devils in it; and the leaves were all a solid, deep green. It was just that kind of a day. It made him feel different, glum; and his thoughts were queer and foggy, and he didn’t have the right words for them. There was the feeling that he wanted something, and he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t stay put in one place, and he kept shifting about, doing all sorts of awkward things, looking far away, and not being satisfied with anything he did.
He didn’t go around Indiana any more, so he had walked up and down other streets and had ended up in the Carter Playground. He fooled around. He batted out stones. He climbed up the ladders and slid down, and didn’t mind doing that, but canned it, because the ladders were for young squirts. He sat on the edge of the slide and thought of Lucy, and of how he had scarcely seen her since that day. He liked Lucy. He liked her. He loved her, but after what had happened he was even ashamed to admit it to himself. He was a hard-boiled guy, and he had learned his lesson. He’d keep himself roped in tight after this when it came to girls. He wasn’t going to show his cards to nobody again. He sat on the slide. He got up and climbed the ladder. He slid down. He picked up pebbles and shot them as a guy shot marbles. He went to the fountain for a drink. He wished he could think of something