The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [94]
“If we did, all he would have had to do was touch my belly. I’d have blown up like a balloon,” Kenny said.
“We could have mobbed him, and cleaned him too, only for the bananas,” Studs said.
“That’s what I thought. As soon as we feel better, I say we come down and lay for him. We’ll get him,” Red said.
“How about the navy?” asked Studs.
“That’s an idea,” Red said, without interest.
They started out for a naval recruiting station. On the way they passed a burlesque show with advertisements flaunting pictures of semi-nude girls. Studs had money. They went to the show.
III
Aloof and alone, his stomach like a lump of lead, Studs stood on the sidewalk by the vacant lot near Fifty-eighth and Indiana.
In the prairie, the Indiana punks were in two trenches facing each other, and exuberantly warring with sand-filled tin cans. The nearer trench was a wide hole, partly covered with a piece of tar paper, and protected by earthworks of sand, heavy stones, and grocery boxes. The farther trench was long and narrow, and connected by a communication trench with a shallow reserve trench. In front of it was a deep hole, dug as an observation post.
Studs wondered where they could have collected so many cans. He sneered. Only for that goddamn recruiting sergeant, he wouldn’t have to watch punks in short pants have an imitation war. He couldn’t forget that lousy, tow-headed marine. They ought to go back and jump the bastard.
“G’wan home, children, and get your diapers pinned on!”
He belched. And last night had been just like a nightmare. They ought to go back, all right, and jump him.
Andy Le Gare and Danny O’Neill rose from the farther trench, holding, between them, a five-gallon oil can that was heavy with sand. They maneuvered into position to heave it. Dick Buckford rose from a nearer trench, and whacked Andy in the arm with a can. Andy let out a yell, dropped the can on his foot, and dove back into his trench amidst a tin-can shower. O’Neill retrieved the trench mortar, and scrambled to safety. Studs laughed. He wished he’d been in the trench and had such a chance to plop goofy Le Gare.
He felt like joining in the battle. But, hell, it was only playing at war, and he wasn’t a kid in short pants any more. And they wouldn’t take him in the army. A lot of nerve that goddamn sergeant had had.
And then when he’d gotten home, with an awful bellyache, he had all that trouble. They never made any least effort to try and understand him. His old lady still nagging him to study for the priesthood. And Fran, a great big pain she was. And the old man! Let him yell. He’d told them he didn’t want to go to school. Now they knew. Father Mahin from Loyola had called up to ask what had happened that he hadn’t been to school for so long, and the old man had also learned about his having blown in the tuition money. All the damn yelling they’d done over it. And just when he had that bellyache.
He felt like blowing, going on the bum. He could just hop a freight and enlist in some other town. Then when he went to war, and they’d learned that he’d died a hero’s death, how’d they like that? The old man would be plenty sorry, and it would serve him right. And Father Gilhooley would say a solemn high mass for him at St. Patrick’s, and they’d all be there in tears, and maybe his old man would even cry. And then, maybe Lucy Scanlan would be proud she’d known him, and maybe she’d cry too.
But he didn’t want to die. Well, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d enlist and become a hero, and not get killed but would return as Lieutenant, or Major or Colonel Lonigan with medals all over his chest. And his picture would be in the paper, and when he came back they’d be pretty goddamn proud to see him.
Led by Ralph Borax, the enemy in the farther trench spread out in No-Man’s-Land in front of their earthworks, and kept up a steady tin-can barrage, permitting Le Gare and O’Neill to get into position and heave their trench mortar. It smashed sand and wood down in upon the punks in the nearer trench. Andy jumped up and down,