Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [328]
“I didn’t, either. The fellow who thought it up, whoever he was, was a smart man. I give him credit!” the fellow replied to Studs.
“They pulled it off so neat,” Studs marvelled.
“The master-of-ceremonies is a brainy man. His talk at the end there, it was really inspiring, and made you understand just what the Order of Christopher means.”
“I know him. He’s Judge Gorman,” Studs said with pride.
“He must be smart as a whip.”
“I knew from the start it was all hooey.”
“And say, was I ready to stand up and give three cheers when that long-nose ended his spiel?”
“I’m just waiting for the next initiation, when I can see some new chumps go through the mill like I did, and laugh behind a black robe, thinking now there are lads dumber than I was.”
“Jesus, this place smells like a . . .”
“Yes, just like a crapper. Ain’t that funny? And you know what flowers smell like? They smell like flowers.”
“Dumb, hell! McCarthy, you’re the stuff that the best of Catholic American manhood is made of. Didn’t he say so?”
“That stuff must be hunger, because right now I’m made of just hunger.”
“Anyway, fellow, the Order of Christopher is sure a fine thing. I’m glad I can call myself a Christy.”
“Me, too.”
Stepping outside, Studs breathed deeply. On the street car, he turned up his coat collar to hide the blood stains, and relaxed in his seat. He realized how tired he was. And he wanted to talk about the doings, regretting that he couldn’t tell of it to anyone but a Christy. Well, he could tell the old man about it anyway. He drowsed. Waking up stiff, he rushed to the platform and got off the car. He thought that some day he’d be a big shot in the Christys, just like Judge Gorman. He proudly told himself that he was a Christy. And he had gotten a thousand dollars worth of insurance, too, in Catherine’s name.
He let himself in quietly and hurried to his room to change his clothes so his mother wouldn’t see the stains and go up in the air about them.
His father was drowsing by the radio, and smiled.
“Congratulations, Bill. And say, I’m sorry. You just missed Father Moylan’s talk. Did he roast the bankers! Tell me, how was the doings?”
Studs smiled knowingly at his father.
Chapter Seven
I
His stocks were off eight points, and that meant that he was out over six hundred bucks. His brows knitted, and he determined that he would pray this morning as he had never prayed before.
“Honey, what’s the trouble?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing. Why?” he asked, switching a forced smile on her.
“You look so worried and grumpy.”
“There’s nothing wrong. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking.”
“No, you’re worried.”
“Not especially. Of course, in these times, you wonder about a lot of things that you never even thought of before.”
“What things?”
“Well, business.”
“Yes, darling, and I’ve been feeling the same way since I got that ten-dollar cut in my salary. But this is Sunday, and you’re just going to give business and worry a nice kick around the block,” she said with a dash of feminine decisiveness, as if she were energetically routing dust from a closet.
He smiled again, forced.
“Sometimes you are just like a boy.”
“What do you mean?” he asked with a mixture of embarrassed pride and pleasure.
“You men,” she exclaimed in mock contempt. “You try to be so big and important, and stick your chests out, and you’re just like little boys playing games. That’s why we find you so sweet and love you.”
Feigning disinterest, he shook his head quizzically.
“Now, you forget all this serious business,” she coaxed, sliding her arm through his.
Jesus, if he only could walk along with her on a sunny spring morning like this one and not have a worry in his head, no worry about his dough sunk in Imbray stock, about his health and weak heart, and the possibility of not living a long life, and not be wondering would he, by afternoon, feel pooped and shot. And then