Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [150]
“Swell,” Studs said sarcastically.
“That’ll be about enough,” Lonigan boomed.
The table lapsed into a hostile silence. To break it, Lonigan asked Loretta how she was coming along at school.
“Fine, dad.”
Studs ate quickly. Hell, he didn’t want to take his time, and listen to all the talk that went on.
“What are you studying?”
“Oh, Latin, and Advanced Algebra, and Christian Doctrine, and History, and . . .”
“You’re going to be a smart lady, I see.”
“Martin! Haven’t you been told before not to set your knife against your plate like that. Put it on your plate. You’re not eating with African cannibals,” Fran said.
“Oh, all right!” Martin pouted, putting his knife across his plate.
“I thought I said there’s to be no more of this!” Lonigan said.
“Well, there wouldn’t be, if someone would teach him some manners,” Fran said.
“Aw, mind your own business,” Martin said.
“Fran, please!” said Loretta.
“Well, he could at least eat in a civilized fashion,” Fran said.
“Martin, who do you ever see eating like that?” Lonigan asked.
“Him!” Fran said, pointing at Studs.
“Say, keep your trap shut.”
“You’re not going to snarl at me,” she said. She jumped up, and flushed out of the room. Lonigan impotently looked from one to the other.
“I do wish you’d treat one another like brother and sister,” Mrs. Lonigan said. She arose and followed Fran.
“Bill, you know your sister’s a little nervous and you got to make allowances for her,” Lonigan fatuously said.
Fran returned with the mother, frowned, and sat down, preserving an air of armed truce.
“Well, I had an offer of ninety thousand for the building today,” Lonigan said.
“You took it?” asked Fran.
“I should say not.”
“But, father, this neighborhood is deteriorating all the time. The best people in it are moving over to Hyde Park or out in South Shore. Soon I’ll be ashamed to admit I live around here.”
“Young lady, you’re wrong. The niggers will be run raggedy if they ever try to get past Wabash Avenue. This is a good, decent neighborhood full of respectable people, and it will always be so. Didn’t you hear Father Gilhooley talk about the new church he was building on this street. What did he say? Didn’t he say Michigan was going to be a boulevard straight through. Then, this building will be worth twice as much. Why this neighborhood hasn’t even commenced to grow yet, the way it will, and property values have hardly started to rise in it.”
“But, father. . .”
“Young lady, this is my business.”
They finished supper with little talk. Studs left the table and washed his teeth. He put on his hat and coat. He looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy at all. He heard footsteps in the hall, and turned away. He remembered how Fran had once caught him at the mirror, and had razzed him about being conceited in a snotty, superior way that she had.
“Bill, come here a minute!” Lonigan called as Studs turned the knob of the front door.
He was smoking in his rocker. Studs noticed that his belly seemed to stick out more and more every day. He plunked down on the piano stool.
“Bill, you know, Father Time is beginning to catch up on your mother and me. You kids are all we got, and . . . we’d kind of like to see more of you, have you all stay in and spend a quiet, happy evening with us. That isn’t asking a whole lot. You’re young and want to go out and be a regular fellow, and we don’t object. Only there’s always another night. And you know, Bill, you’ll never have another mother. She sits up night after night worrying about you. It would just tickle her heart pink if you would, now and then, go up, kiss her and say,’Mother, I’m going to stay in with you tonight’.”
“I’m just going to a show. I’ll be in early.”
The phone rang. Studs was glad it was for him. He went out of the parlor and Lonigan picked up his newspaper to read about the Grand Jury quiz of some aldermen implicated in a school board graft. It was Dan Donoghue calling to say that he had found out for certain that Jew Schwartz would be all right, except that he had been ruptured and wouldn’t ever