Studs Lonigan (110 page)

He paused, sat down, his tension relaxing, and he felt ridiculous.

Couldn't even make up his mind on any kind of a resolution. On the stocks, he'd frittered around hoping, while they sank to seven bucks on each of his eighty shares, and now it wasn't even much use to dump them and get back only five hundred and sixty out of his original two thousand.

He wanted to be with Catherine and to forget, and to talk to her, maybe tell her some of these things.

 

Hello, housewives of Radioland, this is Sally Saucer speaking.

 

He turned the radio off. Catherine would maybe still have confidence in him. It was just pride, false pride, that was keeping them apart, and it would cost them a lot to stick to it. Perhaps all she was waiting for was for him to telephone her. And that's just what he was going to do.

“Mom, I'm going down to the corner a minute.”

“Son, not in all this rain.”

“I got my slicker and it won't hurt me.”

“But, son, if you want anything like cigarettes, you can telephone for it, can't you? It's raining cats and dogs.”

“It won't hurt me.”

“You'll get your feet wet, William.”

“I won't be gone long or out in it enough for that.”

“Well, at least wait and let me make you a cup of tea to warm you up before you go.”

“All right,” he said, walking into the kitchen and sitting down while she turned the gas on under a kettle.

“You haven't seen Catherine for the last two or three days?”

“I saw her three or four nights ago,” he said, his voice so unconvincing that she turned to stare at him.

“Son, have you and Catherine quarrelled?”

“Why, no, of course not.”

“Well, I know that something is on your mind, because you seem to be carrying on very strange. And you haven't gone to see her these last nights, or called her up, nor she you. Now, son, tell me the truth. Have you two been quarrelling?”

He showed his embarrassment. Hell, he wished he was a better actor.

“Well, it wasn't anything serious.”

“Just a spat, or what?”

“Nothing much. We just had a disagreement and lost our temper,” he said, wondering what made her so curious, regretting having given it away.

“Son, I didn't want to say this,” the mother said, wagging her head regretfully, “but I have always believed that Catherine wasn't the girl for you. God forbid me from saying anything against the girl, because she's a decent Catholic girl who has good, hard-working parents. But I can't make myself believe she's good enough for a boy with the bringing-up and the family and the educated, refined sisters that you've got. God forbid that I would run her down, but it's the truth that she's a little bit
common.”

Studs looked bored and wanted to get out. And now she'd tell the old man and tonight at supper he'd have to do some explaining. The kettle steamed and Mrs. Lonigan put tea leaves and poured water into a crockery tea pot. She set a cup, milk, sugar, bread and butter before him on the table.

“Son, I'm talking to you because I'm your mother, and a boy can never do the wrong thing if he is guided by his mother. Now, tell me what was the trouble. Did she go out with another fellow?”

“It was nothing like that, I tell you.”

“You know, William, it takes a long time to know a girl, and to learn what she has in her, and whether or not she is the right kind for you,” the mother said, pouring him a steaming cup of tea.

“Catherine's all right,” he said, controlling his gripe caused by her insinuations.

“Of course she is, son. God forbid that I say she isn't. I just said that it takes a long time to really take the measure of a girl, and to know if she'll make a good wife or not.”

Hell, no use arguing with his mother. When she set her mind on something, there was nothing to be done and that was the end of it. He broke a slice of bread and buttered it.

“When did this trouble start?”

“There wasn't any real trouble.”

“But you're not seeing her. Certainly there must have been trouble or you'd be seeing her. Before this quarrel you were seeing her almost every night, and the two of you were always hanging on the telephone.”

“I might be seeing her tonight,” Studs said to halt the talk, wishing that his words were true.

He arose from the table.

“I'll be back soon.”

“Son, can't you wait until the rain lets up?” she asked, and he could see the disappointment on her face.

“It won't hurt me,” he said, quickly leaving the kitchen before his mother could continue pumping him.

Studs dallied by the drug store entrance with soggy feet, blankly watching people pass the rain-swept comer of Seventy-first and Jeffery. Quarter after eleven. He could wait a minute and get clear in his mind just what he would say to her. When she'd say hello, he'd say something like how are you, this is Studs. Then he would go right on and say: Listen, there's no use of going on like this. We ought to talk it over. But suppose she slammed the receiver in his ear, or politely told him there wasn't anything to talk over. He couldn't stand to risk a thing like that.

He shouldn't have come out. As soon as he got home, he'd soak his feet in hot water and drink some more hot tea. Couldn't catch cold with his health and bum heart. He could call and pretend that someone had called when he was out, and ask had she called. And that would give her a chance to break the ice if she wanted to, and it would leave him a loophole to crawl out, and if she then said anything about his trying to make up, he'd have his excuse to show it wasn't so. He just couldn't take the risk of her cutting him cold. That was all.

He watched a man run stiff-legged around the comer onto Jeffery. An Upton Oil Company truck rumbled over the railroad tracks. A stout flat-footed woman pushed toward the bank, her head hidden under an umbrella.

He guessed it would be better to wait until she was home. She wouldn't be able to talk much anyway from the office, because there were people listening in. He could catch the next downtown train and get down in front of the office building when she came out to lunch. That would be the best idea. It was easier to settle a thing seeing a person than over the telephone. He lit a cigarette and thought of how she would come out of the elevator, and seeing him, her face would pop with surprise. Then perhaps she'd smile and it would all be over. The bells rang, the gates lowered. People were running to catch the train. It rocketed into the station. Hell, no use to go down in all this rain. And if he did that and she passed him up he would be sunk. Couldn't bend too far with a girl, or she'd lose all respect for you.

If only he could meet her by accident somewhere, then his hands would be clean. He wouldn't then give her the impression that he was coming on bended knees, with his hat in his hand to get the thing patched up.

Maybe she would telephone him tonight, if she saw he was determined. If she could stand to let it go on, and he called up, he would just show all his cards. Then she'd think that he'd only been making a bum gesture when he'd walked away from her. Best thing to do was to go home, read a few nice stories, listen in on the radio, and sit tight. Let her come around. If she didn't think he was worth coming around to, well, maybe it was just as well to let it go smash.

McGoorty, with a shiny, black, caped raincoat, slopping along. How did they let such a dumb bastard on the force?

It would be dumb sitting home all afternoon, and the old lady would keep after him with questions about the scrap with Catherine. Mrs. George Jackson. That was the ticket. Nothing could be sweeter than a warm dame like her on a cold and rainy day. He pulled out his wallet. Ten bucks. Hell, why not afford the two and a half. It would put him in the right spirits, and he could lay around with her. Hell with Catherine. She didn't know what Mrs. George Jackson knew.

He bought a slug, looked up her number, and phoned. Temporarily disconnected. Couldn't afford to pay her bill, he guessed. Well, under the circumstances, he'd be a welcome and profitable visitor.

He hastened out of the store, bent his head, and trudged along in the pelting rain. This little hardship would make it all the nicer, and he could let his shoes and socks dry while he engaged in a real serious bout of love. Thinking of how she had looked stripped, he plunged his foot into a sidewalk puddle, cursed, proceeded at a more tiring pace.

Damp, his feet wet, he rang her door-bell and climbed the stairs. She stood in the doorway in a soiled apron.

“Hello, I thought I'd come around and see you again,” he said familiarly, wiping his feet.

“Come in a minute, please,” she said, startled, and he hopefully stepped in.

“On a bum and dreary day like this, a fellow needs someone like you to make him feel that he's a man,” he said in a strained voice while she closed the door.

“But I never asked you to come back.”

“I thought it would be a surprise, particularly if you've been feeling as dopey this morning as I have.”

“You know, I'm not a chippy and my home is not a disorderly house. What do you mean by coming here like this?”

“I didn't mean it in that way. I just liked you, and wanted to see you under more favorable conditions than the other day, so I thought, what the hell, nobody would be the loser if I came,” he said, trying to smile persuasively and break through her discomforting, unyielding glance.

“You'd better go see a chippy. I can't do that. I'm not that kind. If you had any feeling, you'd have realized the kind of fix that forced me to do that the other day, and you wouldn't have come back here like this, uninvited.”

Nice little greeting after his trip in the rain.

“But you don't stand to lose anything, and it won't hurt your husband if he doesn't know about it. If you'll play ball with me, I'll give you five bucks. Come on,” he said, pulling out his wallet and drawing out a five-dollar bill.

“Please go.”

He felt like a clown and her voice seemed like a whip. He tried to win her by an intense and impassioned stare, and she returned it with a curling sneer.

“Come on, sister, you know the ropes and it's not going to hurt you. It'll mean five bucks extra for the ponies. I wouldn't have walked all the way here in the rain if I didn't think you were worth it.”

“I'm sorry to inform you that I cannot return your compliment.”

“I don't see why you should treat me this way,” he said, knowing immediately that his words were a bull.

“Who are you that I should worry how I treat you? What do I owe you?”

“That's not what I mean. It's . . . aw, come on, sister, let's get to knowing each other,” he said, reaching to grasp her hand.

“Don't!” she said, stepping back. “Whenever I'm as hard up as you seem to be, I can certainly find myself a better specimen than you.”

“Listen,” he said, sore.

“I wish that you would please get the hell out of my house.”

“Say, what the hell's the idea? One day you hustle like a bitch, and the next you try to pull a high-hat gag like this.”

“If you don't leave I'll call the police.”

“And then we'll ride to jail together in the paddy wagon, and George'll come down to bail you out. There's a law against whores in this town.”

“Who'd take your word for mine? My husband'll kill you, he'll break you in two. Get out before I scream. Get out! Get out, you dirty little rat!”

“All right, girlie. Keep your pants up. I ain't afraid of anybody getting tough, and you can send your husband around any old time.”

“Are you going?”

“You can bet your boots I'm going. Sorry I made the mistake.”

“If you ever come around again, I'll have you arrested. . . . Say, I remember how you acted yesterday, and I pity any woman who'd get the idea that you're a good time. Say, you don't even know how to jazz.”

“All I can say is I feel sorry for George, having a cheating bitch like you for a wife.”

“Get out before I scream!”

The door slammed behind him, and he hurried downstairs and out of the building.

The bitch . . . he repeated to himself, walking in the rain. That dirty, low-down, filthy. . . . He quickly turned the comer. She might set the cops on him. Well, she better not. That goddamn . . . and wasn't he glad he hadn't tossed his dough away for a pig like that! She was lower than a nigger whore or a pansy. Still, she was a neat trick. That dirty. . . . There wasn't any word filthy enough to describe her.

And what a chump he'd been coming all the way over in a rain like this for her. The rotten, goddamn. . . . She probably had some poor feeble-minded chump of a husband, too, who sweated his ears working to get dough she lost on the ponies. And hustling on him on the side. He hoped that dumb George would wake up and kick her all over the house. And the bitch, telling him he didn't know how to. . . . It made him appreciate how decent a girl Catherine was, and it all went to show how when a guy got a girl who was pure gold like Catherine, he should hold on to her. And he was going to. He'd just like to tell that goddamn bitch one thing. He had a girl who was clean and decent, a girl that she wasn't fit to walk on the same street with. The rotten, contaminated little . . .

He darted into a drug store.

“Slug.”

“Bad weather today. Looks like it's going to keep up all day, too,” the bald-headed druggist said.