Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [45]
“So do I,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s so much,” said he.
“All the kids act as if they knew, but I’ll bet that none of them really do,” she said.
“I guess you’re right.”
She told him of the time that her dog, Billie, had cut its nose, and had accidentally rubbed a little blood on her nightgown. Her mother had seen the blood spot, and had gotten excited, and had tried to explain to Helen what things were all about, but Helen had known what her mother told her; and her mother hadn’t told about the thing that was the real bother; her mother hadn’t said a word of what it really felt like. As Helen told this to Studs, he got all excited, and seemed to see her before him, melting and fading. He felt like he’d have to do something, and he was afraid to try.
“Say, wouldn’t it be nicer back in the playhouse?” he said, keeping his voice under control as much as he could.
“We can’t go back and sit there now. My sister Marion and her girl chums are in it,” she said.
“Oh!” he said.
Nothing had seemed wrong in his asking, he guessed. So they sat there and talked. Helen asked him if he knew this Iris who took all kinds of guys up to her house when her mother wasn’t home, and let them all have a gang-shag. Studs said he didn’t know Iris, but he’d heard of her. Helen said that was going too far; it was like being a whore. Studs said yes.
But he wished he could horn in on one of those gang-shags.
Weary Reilley ambled around, and Helen grumbled a greeting to him. He asked if they’d seen Helen Borax, and they said no. Weary fooled around with the soccer ball, and they barbered about nothing in particular. Then they dribbled, one taking the ball, and the other two standing in a line to block the dribble. Weary had never played basketball, so he was awkward and clumsy and couldn’t do the trick right. He went at it rough-and-tumble. He got sore because Helen could make such a monkey out of him. He finally lost his bean and dribbled head on into her, bucking her breasts with his football shoulders. It hurt her. She cried; she knew he had done it meanly and on purpose. She told him so, and he called her a liar. She slammed him in the mush with the ball, and his eyes watered.
“Listen,” he said, preparing to rush her and let her have one.
Studs gripped Weary from the rear and held him in a firm clasp.
“Let me go, you sonofabitch,” Weary yelled.
Studs flung Weary around and then faced him.
“Who’s one?” asked Studs.
“Both of you, and she’s a whore,” said Weary.
“Why, Goddamn you,” said Helen.
“Take that back,” said Studs.
“From . . . you!” sneered Weary.
Weary socked Studs in the jaw; Studs’ jaw flushed, Studs was confused; his breath came fast; maybe he was afraid; he had to fight; he forgot about everything but Weary in front of him. He hauled off and caught Weary on the knob with a wild right haymaker. They rushed into each other and swung. They broke their clinch and circled around. Weary rushed, and a wild uppercut that Studs had started from the ground a trifle before Weary had come in, caught Reilley on the button. Reilley was jogged back; he shook his head, and then walloped Studs with a left and right. But neither of them felt a lot. They fought, absorbed in punching each other. Every time they landed, a feeling of pleasure ran through them, pleasure at having done something physically successful. They fought, slugging, socking away, rushing, swinging with haymakers and wild swishing roundhouses.
Johnny O’Brien, thirteen and fattish, came around and watched. He didn’t yell who he was for, and asked Helen how the scrap had started.
“Oh, Weary got snotty and called me an’ Studs dirty names. If Studs can’t bust hell out of him, I’M GONNA ... Come on, Studs! Bam him! ... Attaboy, Studs!”
Helen attaboyed Studs because he had just given Weary a good bust in the nose. Weary rushed back and made Studs’ left ear red from a wallop. Studs missed Weary with a wild haymaker, and almost fell over. Weary jolted him when he was off balance. Studs came back with a rush and caught Weary in