Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [296]
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true. . . .
Martin yawned.
And in those days things had been a lot different, with bicycles all over the streets, and almost no automobiles, and the women dressed so differently. He wished he could have known what those days had been like, what kind of a fellow the old man had really been. He watched him, too, nodding his head from side to side, looking at his mother still, his lips moving as he quietly sang the songs.
But you’ll look sweet, upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
Lonigan sighed deeply, wistfully.
By the lakes of Killarney, my home o’er the sea. . . .
Studs guessed that this one must be making the old man think of Ireland that he had left as such a small kid. If the stock would go up enough, they could take that trip to Ireland, maybe with himself and Catherine going along, and that would be just jake. He wanted, now, very much, to be able to do something for the two of them. He was glad, too, to see them happy while these songs were sung, only he knew it was a sad kind of happiness, making them think of how they were once young and were now old.
It’s a long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go. . . .
He remembered this one from his own days as a kid. If he had been able to go to war! He looked at his father, listening, remembering, at his mother, listening, remembering, and he was listening, and remembering, too, and he was remembering Lucy as a girl.
IV
“I’ll walk down with you, Martin. I want to get the paper,” Studs said as Martin stood in the parlor doorway with his coat and hat on.
“You won’t be staying out late, boys?” his mother said, her expression one of concern.
“I’ll be home early,” Martin said, checking the disgust that almost broke into his voice, while Studs put on his hat and coat.
“Boys, don’t be staying out late,” she said.
“Try and get back by ten when Amos and Andy come on,” the father said.
“I’d like to get barrelled tonight,” Martin said as they stepped out of the building.
“I’m off of that stuff for a while,” Studs said seriously.
“You ought to be.”
“Well, I did drink my share of the world’s bum gin in my day,” Studs said proudly.
“You’re beginning to talk and act like my grandfather. Back in them there days before Abe Lincoln was shot, we sure was hot stuff, huh, kid?”
“With my heart, I can’t afford to be taking risks.”
Martin extended a package of cigarettes, and both of them lit up.
“I remember that Christmas morning when you came home with a sprained ankle, smelling a few degrees worse than a sewer. Remember? Fran was so hot and bothered because you’d been sassy and threatened to poke her boy friend’s teeth down his throat. Boy, the old homestead sure was no place for peace and meditation that day.”
“Yeah,” Studs smiled, “that was the night we kidnapped Vinc Curley to get his car, and told him we were taking him to church, and went out to Burnham. And the police raided the place when I had my pants down and I jumped out of a second story window to get away. . . .”
“I know the story,” Martin said, bored.
Getting too snotty for a kid brother, Studs thought, his face suddenly grim.
“You know, when I first found out about how you’d get shellacked, I thought it was pretty terrible. When I was a punk in grammar school, I thought that drinking and laying a cutey ticketed you straight for hell. But I learned a few things since.”
“And so did I. I learned you can knock hell out of yourself with too much booze.”
“Thus speaketh the veteran of a thousand gin brawls.”
“No, kid, I’m serious. A guy’s got to watch his step a little. I know I had my fun, but you can’t play that kind of a game forever if