Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [92]
“Bet you when Lucy grows up and marries, she’s going to be one swell order of pork chops,” Paulie said.
Studs felt like socking both of them.
They stood gabbing at the corner of Fifty-eighth and Michigan. Paulie and Studs said it would be hell if Iris ever snitched. Weary said if she did, she knew that he’d smack her teeth down her throat. Then Paulie talked about how Iris had looked, and they compared her with other girls. Weary said Helen Borax had a better figure, but he’d never seen it. Nobody except Weary could touch Helen with a ten-foot pole; and he had gotten what he wanted from her.
“But it would be hell. Mothers get pretty wild about their daughters. I know the punks once had a party at young O’Neill’s, and they played kiss-the-pillow, and that young O’Rorty girl told her old lady, and there was hell to pay. The old lady made her wash her mouth out, and then went up to the sisters and raised hell, and Sister Cyrilla gave O’Neill a report card full of zeroes,” said Studs.
“I know. I was there. That’s when I made a play for Cabby Devlin, and she got so sore at me she hasn’t spoken to me since. She’s decent, too,” Paulie said.
“Well, here’s one gee that’s not worried,” said Weary.
Studs and Paulie both admired Weary.
At home, Studs’ conscience bothered him, and he still worried lest Iris would snitch. But there was nothing to do, unless he wanted to be a damn fool and spill the beans. He tried to pray, promising the Blessed Virgin that he wouldn’t never fall into sin like that again, and he’d go to confession, and after this he’d go once a month and make the nine first Fridays. But he couldn’t concentrate on his prayers. He had had to do it. All summer he’d been bothered by it, and then, when the guys said they were going to Iris’, he couldn’t have run out. He’d had to do it. At school, he’d been taught it was the terriblest sin you could commit. In Easter week of his eighth-grade year, he remembered Sister Bertha saying that God tested you with temptations of sins of the flesh, and if you were able to withstand them you needn’t worry about not getting into Heaven. Ninety-nine per cent of all the souls in Hell were there because of sins of the flesh.
Hell suddenly hissed in Studs’ mind like a Chicago fire. It was a sea of dirty, mean, purple flames; a sea so big you couldn’t see nothing but it; and the moans from the sea were terrible, more awful and terrible than anything on earth, than the moans of those people who drowned on the Eastland, or than the wind at night when it’s zero out and there’s snow on the ground. And all the heads of the damned kept bobbing up, bobbing up. And everybody there was damned for eternity, damned to moan and burn, with only their heads now and then bobbing up out of the flames. And if Studs died now, with his soul black from mortal sin, like it was, well, that was where he would go, and he would never see God, and he would never see Lucy, because she was good and would go to heaven, and he would never see Lucy . . . forever.
And Studs was afraid of Old Man Death.
It was a tough break, all right, because you couldn’t seem to resist temptations. It was supposed to be your weakness that made you do it. But everybody’s father and mother did it. If they didn’t nobody but Christ would have ever been born. The newspapers were full of stories about people who did it. Millionaires did it with chorus girls, and got sued. The older guys did it every Saturday night at a can house. Fellows who weren’t Catholics said that priests and nuns did it, but that was a lousy lie. Father Shannon, the missionary, had said that he’d seen hospitals full of people who were rotting away in blindness and insanity because of it. It made Barlowe limp. Everybody was always doing it. There were movies about it, and guys in short pants couldn’t go, unless they snuck in. ADULTS ONLY. Everybody