Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [95]
Weary said his old man still wanted him to go to school, but he wouldn’t go because it was all the bunk.
They hung around Studs’ tree a while. Then they walked on in silence. Finally, Paulie said:
“Gee, it’s nice here!”
They said yeh, and they walked around. Studs thought of Lucy and how far away last summer was. He wanted to talk about her to the guys, but felt he hadn’t better, and anyway, he couldn’t hit upon words that would say what he wanted to say. He wished he could go back to that afternoon.
Paulie asked Studs about football.
Studs didn’t hear him, but after Paulie repeated the question, Studs said:
“Oh, I was out for the freshman team, and the coach liked my stuff, but he finally canned me. Said it was discipline, because I didn’t show up every day. Hell, if I showed up every day, that meant I’d have to go to school. And they raise hell with you for not having homework and that stuff. You can’t fake knowing Latin and algebra, and, Jesus, you have to write compositions for English. None of that for me,” said Studs.
“Well, you’d make good if you went out regularly,” said Paulie.
“It ain’t worth it,” said Studs.
They walked on. Paulie got soft, and told about how he liked Cabby Devlin, but he couldn’t get to first base with her since he’d been such a damn fool at young O’Neill’s party. Weary said love was the bunk.
They sat down in leaves by the stepping stones. They talked a while. Then they were silent. Finally Weary said:
“It’s swell here.”
“Yeh,” they answered.
Darkness came, feather-soft. The park grew lonely, and the wind beat more steadily, until its wail sounded upon Studs’ ears like that of many souls forever damned. It ripped through the empty branches. It curved through the dead leaves on the ground, whipped bunches of them, rolled them across bare stretches of earth, until they resembled droves of frightened, scurrying animals. Studs wanted to get out of the park now.
They said so long, and each trooped moodily home. As he was leaving the park, Studs saw a tin can. He commenced kicking it, and stopped. He was wearing his long pants every day now, and only kids, punks, kicked tin cans along. He started walking on. He turned. He looked at the tin can. He came back and kicked it. He walked on. No one saw him. He thought about the day. He wondered about other days, and wished he had a lot of them back. He wished that he was back at St. Patrick’s, instead of being in high school and in dutch for bumming. He wished that he and Lucy were together, instead of being like strangers. He guessed she knew about Iris.
At supper they had a quarrel, as usual. And his mother asked him to pray so he could decide about his vocation. And the old man told him he ought to go to confession, because he hadn’t been there since June. Then they kicked at Martin not having his finger nails cleaned and Loretta and Frances squabbled. After supper, he went to sit by the parlor window. Frances sat down to do her homework. The old man asked him didn’t he have homework. Studs said he had done it in a study period at school. The old man said it would be good to get ahead. Studs said he didn’t know what homework they’d have ahead. Frances called in to ask him if he knew what declension “socius” belonged to. He said he didn’t. The mother said she guessed the girls learned more rapidly than boys did, and they went ahead faster in their lessons. The old man put on his house slippers. He listened to Uncle Josh Joins the Grangers on the Vic. Then he opened his Chicago Evening Journal. Looking over his paper once, he said:
“Well, Mary, now that the kids are coming along, we’ll have to take more time to ourselves, and next summer we’ll have to do a little gallivantin’ of our own, and go out and make a night of it at Riverview Park.”
Studs sat looking out of the parlor window, listening to night sounds, to the wind in the empty tree outside. He told himself that he felt like he was a sad song. He sat there, and hummed over and over to himself . . . The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
1929-1931
The Young