Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [336]
Studs could see, though, that the old man was hit. He felt as if he’d stuck a knife in his dad’s back. Judas Iscariot. He sank in his chair, dreamily listened to sugared sad music, feeling lousy.
Chapter Eight
I
SEEING the morning sunlight beyond the window, hearing the sounds of life in the alley, Studs was glad to be awake and to know that the distressing sadness he had been feeling was only a dream. He stretched himself out comfortably, and with his eyes on the ceiling tried to remember his dream. All he could remember was that he had been very sad and afraid in it. He sighed again because it had only been a dream, now it was morning, and he had a sunny day ahead of him with nothing to do but take it easy.
In the alley an automobile exhaust went off like a gun.
He guessed he might even wait a few days on his stock, and see if it didn’t go up. Because if the market broke yesterday, it was only natural that there would be a little stabilization today. A man like Imbray with all his money would back up his stock, and if he waited a few days he would, anyway, not be out as much as he was.
He got up and stretched his arms. Looking down at the small, grassless, fenced-in square of a back-yard, watching an ice wagon pass, he thought of how good he felt this morning. And the sun slanting down the flat sides of the building across the alley! It was going to be a good day.
He took his time washing, and thought of how he would maybe go out in the park and sit in the sun. He dressed lazily and walked to the kitchen for breakfast.
“Your father looked very worried this morning,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“Well, there won’t be much business now maybe until fall, and he’s worried. By then business will be going again.”
“I do hope that something does happen for your poor father’s sake. He’s like a changed and unhappy man these days.”
“It will.”
“You’re not working today, are you?”
Studs stared at her, wondering. What was the idea of such a dumb question, because she knew he wasn’t or he’d have been gone long before a quarter to nine.
“No.”
“Rest, then, and take it easy.”
“I am. I’m going to the park and get some sun.”
“You better not sit in the grass. It will be damp at this time of the year and you might catch cold. You must take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
After breakfast, he lounged in the parlor, reading the newspaper.
GRAPEFRUIT KING PREDICTS GOOD TIMES
Business Has Improved forty per cent Says Hiram Cole
That sounded good.
MUSSOLINI PLANS CORPORATIVE STATE
He guessed Mussolini was a smart man, but flipped the pages to the funnies.
Throwing the newspaper aside, he left, thinking of how Moon Mullins was a real character. Slug Mason had been a little like Moon, poor Slug.
He drifted toward Seventy-first Street, looking upon himself as a man with business interests who was puzzled by the problem of selling out or holding onto his investments. Maybe if he held, he’d lose more. Maybe not. Best to think it over so as not to make a mistake.
And he hoped something interesting or exciting would happen in the park. He crossed over Sixty-seventh Street, cut through a path in the bushes and emerged at the extremity of the large golf course. A feeling of being lost and empty, with nothing to do, came upon him, and he stood with his eyes fixed on the sprouting green before him. He’d been anxious to get here, and now that he was in the park, what?
He hoped that he would meet some girl and that they’d get on together. He set off strolling along the edge of the course, with the image of a girl in his head as if she were walking beside him, tall and dark, and sexy, and if he took her rowing she would sit facing him, showing off her thighs, and if they sat on a lonely bench she would wait to be kissed and felt. Jesus Christ, he exclaimed, his desire reaching a painful point.
He looked around, the trees in front