Studs Lonigan (84 page)

“Yeah, the I. C. ought to hurry up with the rest of its electrification programme. Look,” Studs said, showing her the soot-streaked handkerchief.

“It's not right to have a smoke nuisance spoiling a beautiful city like Chicago,” she said as they strolled on.

“You know, I haven't seen any other big cities, but I guess there isn't any of them to match Chicago,” Studs said.

“Me for Chicago every time. That's what I say. And Mr. Breckenbridge, my boss, he's been all over, in the big cities like Indianapolis, and New York, Detroit, Cleveland, Minneapolis, all the big cities, and even in Toronto and Montreal in Canada, and he says the same thing. He always calls it Chicago Beautiful, and says there isn't another city like it in the world. It has the real city spirit he says, and he's interested in the plan they have, the Chicago Plan, to make it even more beautiful. He keeps saying that instead of there being so much graft, the money should be spent in improvements, particularly now in bad times when everything is so cheap. He even dictated a letter I typed the other day, showing how if the city would do that, there wouldn't be so many men out of work.”

“It's a good idea. And say, I never imagined that it was so nice down here as it is,” Studs said dreamily, looking ahead in fresh amazement at the spraying waters of the fountain. There was something about the fountain, lit up as it was, something beautiful.

“And look at the Lindbergh Beacon,” Catherine said, seeming to catch a sense of Studs' mood, and pointing northward in the direction of the line of bluish light sweeping the sky.

“Nice,” he said.

“And wait until we have The Century of Progress in 1933. Won't that be grand! Mr. Breckenbridge says that by then Prosperity will be back and everyone will be making money again hand over fist.”

“I hope so,” Studs said, wondering how his health would be in two years. Would he even be alive? Two years ago, Shrimp, Tommy Doyle, Slug, lots of people now dead, had been alive, and in better health than he was now.

“And won't it be just grand, Bill, dear, for Mr. and Mrs. Lonigan to go to the Fair? We'll see everything and go on all the rides, won't we?” she said gaily, snuggling her arm through his.

“There'll be lots to see, too,” he said.

“And we'll dance. We'll go some night for supper and dance. It'll be fun.”

He felt her arm curled under his elbow, and began to get anxious. He wanted her in his arms, and he ought to kiss her, and she wanted to be kissed. Suppose he should be a chump over the way he went about it? And how far would she let him go? He remembered how he had made a chump of himself in the cab, that night he had taken Lucy to his sister's sorority dance. And his anxiety seemed to increase.

He looked ahead feeling soft, and the dazzling rays of the fountain seemed, somehow, to be part of his mood. And his feelings about Catherine and the spray were like so many diamonds lifting and falling, and to him, Catherine was like a diamond, and his feelings were like the fountain, so many diamonds rising and falling that way in the light, and the light was Catherine. And was he thinking like a chump, or wasn't he?

The lake breezes had sharpened, carrying in their rush the smell of the waters. And behind them he heard the dry-sounding clatter of a train. He felt himself to be walking in a different world from what was back there, where the train had passed. Even the dirt, hard and cold beside the walk, it seemed more than dirt frosted from the long winter.

“Dear?” she said, her voice prolonging the sound so long that Studs felt as if it had slowly melted on her tongue like chocolate candy.

“Yes,” he answered expectantly, a vision of their future marriage, their first wedding night, a honeymoon to Niagara Falls, and many other nights of promise in his mind.

They turned to the right, crossed the outer driveway, hastened toward the lake. Studs reduced their pace to stare southward at the squat hugeness of the Chicago Memorial Stadium, standing, he guessed, maybe like some Roman ruins in the mistiness.

He took her arm and led her forward, thinking of how he felt like a new man, wishing that they were already married. He realized that he was chilled, and turned up his coat collar. Worry about his health fell over his thoughts, smothering them like a wet blanket. He felt, as if in a prophecy, that he would never live to have the things he had just been thinking about. . . . Oh, Jesus Christ! he silently exclaimed with pity for Studs Lonigan.

“Dear, we hadn't better go any farther. You might catch cold.”

“I'll be all right,” he tersely replied, not wanting her to think him weak or afraid or anything.

“No, let's turn back.”

“Come on!” he insisted, and she glanced up at him with an expression of meekness, her eyes seeming to shine.

She again took his arm, and he clamped his elbow tightly against her hand.

There seemed to him to be a lot of meanings in their walk, their touches, the silence between them. Again, as when he had been with Lucy a few times, there had seemed to be ahead of him things that he wanted very much. Always in his life, he had believed, felt, knew, that it was going to be Studs Lonigan's destiny to get something he wanted and needed to give him a happiness he hadn't known but only wished for. It had always seemed ahead of him, and now he was on the verge of catching up with it. It had been, he guessed, a feeling like always being so thirsty that he could never get enough to drink, or like eating a fruit that he could never suck all the juice from, and now, he would. With Catherine, he was going to get everything that he wished for, all that he deserved. And, as he stumbled through these thoughts, he seemed to carry in a corner of his mind a fragmentary sense of the buildings standing along Michigan Boulevard with all their soaring suggestions of power. And in all those buildings, he suddenly realized, there were men with money and power and everything they wanted, men with names that everyone knew and respected. Men who were successes. And he could be like them. A man could have anything in this life that he wanted if he had the guts to go after it, and the faith and belief that he could succeed. Some day he was going to do it for both himself and for Catherine, and to show everybody what there really was in Studs Lonigan. And he would lay it all before Catherine, and say that he had done it for her and for himself, and to prove that she had been right in having confidence in him and marrying him. He knew that she was really going to understand him and see the real stuff he had in himself.

He felt her arm pressed against his side, through his overcoat, and they heard muffled voices from the city behind them. The lake odors were pungent, and the wind rubbed their faces like a brush with sharp fibrous hairs. They heard the rolling waves and the crashing waters against the wooden breakwaters and stones, the recession of the undercurrent, and far out Studs watched the glimmering red lighthouse signal, blinking. Down to their left, the lights of the Municipal Pier were strung like floating lanterns. Again, he told himself that from this night on, Studs Lonigan was starting. He was going down the field, hitting the line like cement, bowling over anything and everything that got in his way, Studs Lonigan was. He saw now that even with the many good times he had had, much of his past life had been foolish, much of his time had been wasted, and he had almost wasted himself and his health. He had nearly put himself in the same boat with the Haggertys, Tommy Doyle, and Slug, Lord have mercy on their souls. Now he saw. Now he was ready for the real fight of his life, and he would have Catherine at his side, just as his old man had always had his mother.

Suddenly he became weak and limp with the let-down from his thoughts. His throat seemed to have tightened up, obstructing speech. Feeling the necessity of doing something, he lit a cigarette in the wind. The wind, colder and stronger than it had been over near Michigan Boulevard, wrapped their coats tightly about their knees. Smoking became too difficult, so Studs tossed his cigarette away. They bent their heads and shoulders forward, hastening. Suddenly, she stopped and tugged at his arms. As he turned, she closed her eyes and turned her head up at him. He kissed her, the touch of her lips seeming like an exaltation that he would never forget. He gripped her tightly and they clung to each other in an embrace made awkward because of their coats.

“If someone in an automobile turns a headlight in our direction, they'll see us,” he said when they had freed themselves; he was shy and embarrassed and he breathed rapidly.

She smiled.

“Let them!” he said gruffly, feeling reckless and pulling her to him with awkward haste.

“You know what?” she asked, after recovering her breath.

“What?” he asked, the word gushing out of his mouth.

“I love you!”

They walked swiftly to the lake and stood on the jagged breakwater rocks, his left arm encircling her waist. Foaming with noisy whitecaps, the waters came in with a rush, pounded, dragged outward to the visible wall of darkness and mist. A path of moonlight, like a gleaming aisle, slanted over the water, away from them. Listening to the waves, and perceiving their merciless and resilient strength as they smashed into the breakwater and lifted, he felt how weak he himself was, how weak, perhaps, anybody must feel standing here. He felt that for years, and forever onward until the Day of Judgment, these waves would be pounding and smashing, day and night.

“It's cold,” she said, shouting to be heard, shivering.

Speech, hearing her, seeing her, made him feel that anyway he was still alive, and that tomorrow morning he would probably still be alive.

He looked out over the waters, at the darkness closing over them. A dash of spray broke against his cheek. He thought that he might catch cold. Had to watch his health now. He peered down at the lights of the Municipal Pier. From behind, he heard faintly a screech from an automobile brake.

Fumblingly, he opened both their coats, drew her against him, feeling a sudden warmth and tenseness come into her. Held against him, she lost all shyness and kissed him with avid hunger, and he knew that he was keen on her all right and wanted her, and wanted to marry her.

“It's getting late, and it's too chilly for you here, dear,” she said when she had regained her poise.

Turning, they climbed down from the breakwater and retreated rapidly toward the lights and the skyline of Chicago. He was tired and happy and determined. He wanted the future to come. He could hardly wait to get started now to show his real self, to make a success out of his life. He was happy with Catherine walking beside him, Catherine was going to be his and his alone, his woman.

“WHY, hello, Studs.”

Studs turned, surprised to find Pat Carrigan and a thin sickly-looking fellow with a familiar face on the platform of the Bryn Mawr Illinois Central Station.

“How's tricks?” Studs asked.

“Oh, so-so, Studs. Say, do you know Ike Dugan?”

“Yes, we met in South Bend at a Notre Dame football game last fall,” Ike Dugan said.

“Sure. Are you through at N. D. now?”

“Him. He was just one of the synthetic alumni. He came next to me in breaking the record to see who could stay the longest in high school. It took me six years to graduate. It only took him five. If he'd gone to college, he'd have had gray hair before he became a senior.”

“Studs, don't pay no attention to him. He's just trying to kid me,” Ike said.

“Where you bound for, Studs? Date?”

“No, my girl has her bridge club tonight, so I thought that I'd go downtown and take in a show.”

“Swell. We're going down to see
Doomed Victory.
I hear it's a swell gangster picture.”

“Sounds O. K. to me,” Studs said.

“Well, boys, here she is,” Ike said as the train pulled into the station.

Studs followed them into the car, and they found seats together, Ike riding backward.

“Studs, did you hear about Stan? He's been living somewheres around here, and he was put out of his flat because he owed the rent. Poor guy is down in the mouth these days.”

“The going is pretty rough for poor Stan,” Studs said thoughtfully.

“Yes, but times is going to get better,” Ike said.

“What, Ike, have you got a tip out of the La Salle-Street feed box?”

“I know, all right. I tell you, I know times is going to get better, and I'm not just guessing.”

“Send a telegram to Hoover about him and let him in on the secret,” Studs said.

“Ike, you're one of the original inside kids, aren't you?” Pat said.

“Fellows, I tell you, I know. Times is going to be better. I'm making dough right now. And I have got a little inside dope,” Ike said with a slick gesture of his hand and a knowing smirk.

“What, are you in the political game, too?” Studs asked.

“Fellows, I'm not kidding. Listen. I work for Imbray and I know. You know what's behind these stocks? Well, I'll tell you. All, or nearly all, the public utilities of the Middle West and the brain of a man like Solomon Imbray. What more security could you want?”

“If I had any dough, I'd spend it and see what I was getting,” Pat said.

“Are you selling stock?” Studs asked.

“I'm not a salesman, but everybody in our company is privileged to sell it and if we do, we get a commission,” Ike said.

“Got any real estate for sale out in the middle of the Lake, Ike?” Pat asked.

“All right, kid me. But I'm no sucker. I'm kicking out my twelve-fifty a share and when I collect on it, I'll be collecting fifty bucks a share. And then Pat, come around and ask me how about some real estate out in the lake,” Ike said.