The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [85]
“How is Bertha?” asked Studs.
“Oh, she’s as big a crab as ever,” said Paulie.
“You ain’t seen her, have you?” asked Weary, ironically.
“Yeh, I was to school two weeks ago,” said Paulie.
They talked. Paulie wondered out loud about when he would return to school, and if he would get back in class. The sisters said they were giving him his last chance when his mother went up in September and begged that he be let in. Studs said that he ought to have George Kahler write him an excuse, because George was a bearcat at forging handwriting. If Paulie got a sample of his old lady’s handwriting, the trick could be turned. Then he wouldn’t get canned. Studs and Paulie talked of how they hated school. Weary stood there, whittling.
Suddenly, Studs said:
“Gee. I wonder where Davey Cohen is by now.”
“He hasn’t written anybody, has he?” said Paulie.
“No, he blew out right after that first time we were at Iris’, went on the bum like a damn fool. You wouldn’t catch me doing that. I know where I get my pork chops,” said Studs.
“He was a kike, and kikes are no good,” said Weary.
“Well, with an old man like his, I don’t blame the guy for taking to the road,” said Paulie.
“He was a kike, and kikes are yellow. If a gee is yellow, I ain’t got no use for him, and I ain’t never seen a hebe that didn’t have yellow all over his back,” said Weary.
“Well, Davey’s gone,” said Paulie.
They wished they had cigarettes.
“And Iris. They didn’t make machines better than she was,” said Paulie.
“And she never snitched on you, did she, Weary?” said Studs.
“She knew better,” said Weary.
“The old lady caught you with her, didn’t she,” said Paulie. “And she acted like all old ladies. She went up in the air, threw a faint, cried and hollered. She went to sock me, and
I told her hands off, and walked out,” said Weary.
“Well, she’s in a boarding school, where she can’t see any guys now,” said Studs.
“And she was good stuff, too, even if she was a little young,” said Paulie.
Studs sat down in the leaves by his tree.
Weary said his old man still wanted him to go to school, but he wouldn’t go because it was all the bunk.
They hung around Studs’ tree a while. Then they walked on in silence. Finally, Paulie said:
“Gee, it’s nice here!”
They said yeh, and they walked around. Studs thought of Lucy and how far away last summer was. He wanted to talk about her to the guys, but felt he hadn’t better, and anyway, he couldn’t hit upon words that would say what he wanted to say. He wished he could go back to that afternoon.
Paulie asked Studs about football.
Studs didn’t hear him, but after Paulie repeated the question, Studs said:
“Oh, I was out for the freshman team, and the coach liked my stuff, but he finally canned me. Said it was discipline, because I didn’t show up every day. Hell, if I showed up every day, that meant I’d have to go to school. And they raise hell with you for not having homework and that stuff. You can’t fake knowing Latin and algebra, and, Jesus, you have to write compositions for English. None of that for me,” said Studs.
“Well, you’d make good if you went out regularly,” said Paulie.
“It ain’t worth it,” said Studs.
They walked on. Paulie got soft, and told about how he liked Cabby Devlin, but he couldn’t get to first base with her since he’d been such a damn fool at young O’Neill’s party. Weary said love was the bunk.
They sat down in leaves by the stepping stones. They talked a while. Then they were silent. Finally Weary said:
“It’s swell here.”
“Yeh,” they answered.
Darkness came, feather-soft. The park grew lonely, and the wind beat more steadily, until its wail sounded upon Studs’ ears like that of many souls forever damned. It ripped through the empty branches. It curved through the dead leaves on the ground, whipped bunches of them, rolled them across bare stretches of earth, until they resembled droves of frightened, scurrying animals. Studs wanted to get out of the park now.
They said so long, and each trooped moodily home. As he was leaving the park,