Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [295]
Poor old bastard! Studs silently exclaimed.
And there were so many wrinkles now in his mother’s face, and the circles under her eyes, too, made her seem so old. She was the kind who must always be wearing herself out doing things for people, for the old man, for himself and Martin, for the girls, and Phil and Carroll. And she would go on doing things for her home and her family until the end. Suppose the old man did lose everything? How tough it would be on her! Jesus God, if his stock would only go up and he could save them from such troubles!
“And what could be more tempting, more refreshing, more delicious than. . . .”
“Those damn advertisements,” Lonigan said, leaning forward to turn the dial, capturing successive snatches of song, more advertisements, speeches, static.
“The sun shines on yonder hill, friends in radioland, through the courtesy of Bloop Blop and Doop, makers of solid whalebone non-skid rolling collar buttons,” Martin said, entering the parlor.
“Martin, they have to have money for the radio, don’t they, and I think you should appreciate what you get for nothing and not be making such mean remarks. I think it’s nice of people and business men to spend good hard-earned money in these days so we can hear all the wonderful things we do hear over the radio, without you making fun and belittling,” his mother nagged.
Martin cast a quick, pitying glance at his mother, shrugged his shoulders, picked up a morning paper from the piano bench, and slumped into a rocking chair.
“Martin, turn to the radio page and see if there’s anything good due now,” his father said.
“Father, there’s going to be old-time songs on XAK at about this time. I remember seeing it in the papers,” Martin said, and Lonigan dialed.
“And friends of Radioland, the Peoples Stores, situated all over the city for the housewives’ convenience, will be gratified, and amply repaid if you have enjoyed this concert which they have sponsored. This is station XAK, Norman Withers announcing. Stand by now for the time. It is now four seconds to eight, central standard time.”
Melodious bell-like chimes rung out.
“And now, folks of Radioland, we have back with us the Midget Singers. Through the courtesy of the Soskimo Old Woolen Company, manufacturers of all lines of high-class woolen fabrics, with their main manufacturing plant at Soskimo Falls, Massachusetts, we will hear the Midget Singers in an old-times song festival. Miss Marjorie Maginnis, Miss Florence Turtleback, and Miss Helen Ashencourt, the famous Midget Singers, will entertain us with those dear old songs of the days that are gone but not forgotten, when you and I were young, Maggie, and after the ball was over, you hitched old Dobbin to the sleigh and rode home on a bicycle built for two to pledge your troths in the shade of the old apple tree. Folks of Radioland, the Midget Singers.”
Lonigan’s face became alive. He smiled at his wife. Martin frowned, bored, and sank himself again in the newspaper.
Dear old girl, the robin sings above you,
Dear old girl, it speaks of how I love you.
Studs noticed the tender way his father looked at his mother. They loved each other, and he thought of how it would be terrible when one of them died. He figured, too, that they both must be thinking of the good times they had when they were young, remembering rich good things, and he asked himself would he and Catherine sometimes sit, still in love, looking back the same way, and also remembering rich good things?
After the ball is over,
After they all have parted. . . .
That beaming smile on the old man’s face. He had once courted her, taken her out on dates, just as he took Catherine out, thought the same things of her that he thought of Catherine and had once thought of Lucy, kissed her in the same way as he kissed Catherine down by the lake the night they had become engaged. Once his mother, she had been young, like