Studs Lonigan (9 page)

Whenever Studs had queer thoughts he had a good trick of getting rid of them. He imagined that his head was a compartment with many shutters in it, like a locker room. He just watched the shutters close on the queer, fruity thoughts, and they were gone, and he'd have a hell of a time bringing them back, even if he wanted to. He saw the shutter close in his mind now, and he puffed away and felt better. He coughed, because he tried to inhale and got too much smoke in his throat and nose. He thought about Gilly's speech, and told himself that, whew, Gilly had talked a leg off of everybody; he talked as much as High-Collars Gorman, the lawyer. He thought of some of the things Gilly had said, and told himself that he didn't care so much about making any long, hard journey, like Gilly had described. He had always wanted to grow up and become a big guy, because a big guy could be more independent than a punk; a big guy could be his own boss. But he felt a little leery about leaving it all behind and going out into the battle of life.

He had long pants, and he wasn't just a grammar school punk any more, and he could walk down the street feeling he wasn't, but well . . . sometimes he wasn't so glad of it. And now he'd have to go to high school, when he didn't want to, and meet new kids and get in fights all over again to become somebody in a new gang.

He told himself that he'd have to go out now in the battle of life and start socking away. It was fun thinking about it, but that was different from the real thing. And when you had to fight, you got socked in the mush, and a good sock was never any fun. Anyway, he had the summer ahead of him, and he could have fun with the guys around Indiana.

Weary Reilley came in. Weary was carrying his diploma, but he didn't have any Irish history or Palmer method certificates. They were boushwah anyway, and just a lot of extra work.

Studs gave Weary a cigarette, and they stood facing each other. They were a contrast, Weary taller, and with a better build, and looking like a much badder guy. Weary had a mean, hard face, square and dirty-looking.

“I'm glad it's over,” Studs said.

“Me, too. This for the works,” Weary said, making noises by compressing his lips outward and blowing.

“I'm glad I'm through with Battling Bertha,” Studs said.

They laughed in mutual agreement and understanding.

“Wouldn't she get one if she saw us in here smokin'!” said Weary.

“Yeah,” said Studs.

They laughed and lit new fags.

“She's too old to teach anyway,” said Studs.

“She's a crab,” Weary said.

“I never liked the old battleaxe,” Studs said.

“Remember when she kept me after school and started to sock me, and I wouldn't let her?” Weary said.

“Yeah. You had to fight with her, didn' cha?” said Studs.

“Well, the old cow went to swing on me, and I told her hands off. No, sir! I'm not lettin' no one take a poke at me and get away with it. Not even Archbishop Mundelein himself,” Weary boasted out of the side of his mouth.

“Neither am I!” said Studs.

“Neither am I!” said Weary.

They looked each other in the eye, and kept staring for several long seconds to prove that they were unafraid of each other.

“No one can get away with takin' a poke at me,” Studs said.

“Well, I never let anyone get away with takin' a poke at me neither, and I didn't intend to start by lettin' blind Bertha smack me,” Weary said.

“After that she never bawled you out, did she?” Studs said.

“She was afraid of me,” bragged Weary.

“She used to treat me all right. You see, my old man always gave the nuns a turkey on Thanksgivin' and Christmas,” Studs said.

“Say, by the way, did you see Doneggan take a wham at TB?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, Muggsy McCarthy made some crack when Gilly was speakin', and Doneggan didn't like it, so he cracked his puss,” Weary said.

“Yeh! Say! You know TB gets it in the neck every shot. I kinda feel sorry for the guy,” Studs said.

“He's nuts anyway. I know I wouldn't take what that loogin takes. I don't give a good goddamn who it is, nobody is gettin' away with anything on this gee,” said Weary.

“You know, they got a hell of a lotta nerve haulin' off on a guy just because they're priests or nuns,” said Studs.

Studs casually shot his butt, just like all tough guys did.

“Well, if a guy stands for it, that's his tough luck,” Weary said.

“Yeh, but goofy McCarthy is helpless. Christ, the poor guy's got one foot in the grave. His brother Red ain't so bad, but he's a sap. I tell you he's fruity,” said Studs.

“The loogin's rotting away with TB anyway,” said Weary.

“But lemme tell you . . . he's damn smart. Jesus! You know, if he'd a wanted tuh work, he could of had the scholarship to St. Cyril or any of those schools that hold scholarship exams and give scholarships,” Studs said.

“But what the hell does that mean?” said Weary.

“Nothin',” said Studs.

“Anyway, I'm glad I'm through with old Bertha, . . . say, gimme another fag?” Weary said.

They lit cigarettes.

“Remember her, how she'd rush down the aisle to hit a guy, and she'd never hit the right one because she's as blind as a bat and she couldn't see enough to take the right aim?” said Studs.

They laughed because Bertha was funny, blind as a bat like she was.

“But she is one lousy crab,” said Studs.

“Anyway, I'm damn glad to be out of the dump,” said Weary.

“Me, too,” affirmed Studs.

“But we had a pretty good time at that,” Weary added.

“Yeh, even if we did have Bertha in seventh and eighth grade, and even if we did have guys like Clayburn in the class making it hard for us by always studying,” said Studs.

“Clayburn ought to be in the boy scouts,” Weary said derisively.

They laughed.

“Say, remember the time we shoved bonehead Vine Curley through the convent window, and there was a big stink, and Bernadette lammed blazes out of him when he bawled that he didn't do it and she said he did and she would break his head before she let him call her a liar?” said Studs.

“That was funny,” Weary said.

“And the time Muggsy hit Bertha with an eraser, and she went sky high, and looked like she'd bust a blood vessel, and she blamed Reardon and nearly put lumps on his head by beaning him with her clapper?” said Studs.

“And the fights we used to have with the Greek kids from the school across the way, and their priest would come over to Gilly, because he and Gilly are friends even if he is a Greek Catholic priest, and Gilly would send Doneggan up to read the riot act to us?” said Weary.

They laughed.

“And remember the time when Bertha fell on the ice?” said Studs.

“That was good because we were off three days,” said Weary.

“You know, about the only decent thing about Bertha was that she was always falling on the ice or getting sick so she couldn't teach and we were getting holidays,” said Studs.

“Well, Bertha always gave me a pain right here,” Weary said, pointing to the proper part of his anatomy.

A pause.

“Are you going to high school?” asked Weary.

“I don't know. I don' wanna,” said Studs.

“I'm not goin',” said Weary.

“I don't think I'll go,” said Studs.

“Schools are all so much horse apple,” said Weary.

“I don't want to go, but the gaffer wants me to, I guess,” said Studs.

“Well, I ain't goin', and my old man can lump it if he don't like it,” said Weary.

“Gonna work?”

“Maybe,” said Weary.

“Maybe I'll get myself a jobber,” said Studs.

“Say, by the way, Gilly didn't ask for any dough in his speech, did he? I wonder if the old boy is sick or startin' to get feeble,” said Weary.

“Well, he told us all to remember and not forget to contribute to the support of our pastor,” said Studs.

“Yeah, that's right. He's never yet made a sermon without askin‘ for somethin', a coal collection, or a collection for the starvin' chinks, or for Indian missions, or some damn thing,” said Weary.

“He's always asking for the shekels. He's as bad as a kike,” said Studs.

“And did you hear his crack about the playground?” said Weary.

“Yeah,” said Studs.

“Well, I couldn't keep a straight face when he made that crack about our large playground. Boy! a yard full of cinders where you can't play football, or even pompompullaway without tearin' hell out of your clothes and yourself, and they won't let you play ball in it because they're afraid you'll break a window, and he's too damn cheap to put up baskets for basketball. Like the gag he worked on us in winter. We were the snow brigade, and got a lot of praise for shoveling snow off of his sidewalks, and he saved the money he'd of had to pay to have it done ... and he patted us on the head, said we were good boys, and gave us each a dime,” said Weary.

“Well, I gotta go,” said Studs.

“Me, too,” said Weary.

“Here's some gum to take the fags off your breath,” said Studs, sticking some Spearmint in his mouth.

“S . . t, the old man knows I smoke anyway,” said Weary.

They walked out to the front to meet their proud, waiting parents.

Small crowds gathered in front of the parish building, to converse, laugh and reflect the glory of the children and elders of St. Patrick's parish. The Lonigans stood in one such small group. Lonigan spied Dennis P. Gorman. Mr. Dennis P. Gorman was a thin, effeminate man with a dandified mustache, and his nose was sharp. He was exceedingly well tailored in a freshly pressed gray suit; he wore a clean white shirt, a high stiff collar and a black tie. His meek, satellite wife was at his side; she was moron-faced, and looked younger than her thirty-six years. These well-known parishioners were standing under the arc light, bowing profusely and elegantly to the passers-by. Lonigan moved from the group he was in, without excusing himself; his wife followed. He hastened up to Gorman, held out his hand and said:

“Hello, Dinny!”

Dennis P. Gorman proffered a limp hand. Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman bowed and offered saccharine compliments for the Lonigan children.

“Well, Dinny, what did you think of it?” Lonigan asked.

While Dennis P. Gorman paused and cleared his throat for oratorical delivery, Mrs. Lonigan approached, and she and Dennis's wife engaged in mothers' talk.

Dennis's effeminate voice was now prepared for action, and he said in tones of mingled melodrama and sing-song:

“Well, I believe, in fact, I am firmly convinced, that Mr. Wilson's nomination today was an excellent choice . . . yes, an excellent choice. I am profoundly gratified that he has been renominated. I shall be proud to give him my own humble vote, and believe that it is the positive duty of every public-spirited citizen to do likewise. I shall endeavor, within my own limited power, to assist in his campaign for reelection. There is not one iota, no, not one slightest crepuscular adumbration of doubt but that Mr. Wilson is more qualified to wield and sway such power as resides in the chief executive position of the United States than his opponent, Mr. Hughes. He has brains, administrative capacity, diplomatic skill, integrity, ability, courage and a brilliant record. It was due to his efforts that we have, today, the Federal Reserve System, which shall, in our own lifetime, render panics impossible. It was his diplomacy that has kept America minding its own business and out of the dreadful militaristic war that now bleeds and devastates Europe, and leads some to believe that we have come to Armageddon. I say, with rich and full conviction, that there is not the slightest doubt, no question whatever, as to the relative merits of the two men. There is absolutely no comparison; it is all contrast, that makes Mr. Wilson's star scintillate with added brilliancy. Were he a Republican, I believe that I would bolt my party to give him my vote. However, I know that a man of Woodrow Wilson's stature, character and all-round ability and integrity could never remain a Republican, because, as every unbiased observer well knows, the G. O. P. is helplessly, hopelessly and irredeemably corrupt. Have I made my opinion clear, sir?”

The keen grayish eyes of Mr. Dennis P. Gorman roamed the spaces of the starry June evening.

“Oh, yeh! I'm for Wilson, too. A brilliant scholar! Wilson's a scholar, the brainiest President we had since Lincoln. And he kept us out of war. I think I'll make a contribution, of course it will be small, a drop in the bucket, but then I'll make my little contribution to the campaign,” said Lonigan.

Dennis P. Gorman told Lonigan quickly, but with his customary aloofness and dignity, that every contribution, no matter how small, would be appreciated, and that Wilson was not the President of Wall Street, but of the common people, and the common people were the ones he needed. And the Democratic party, Gorman called it our party, is the voice of the common people, the average, good, honest Americans like those of St. Patrick's parish.

“Yeah, I'll see you later, Dinny, and make a small contribution. But what I meant is how did you like the works tonight, Dinny?”

Lonigan saw Dennis P. Gorman frown at his use of the word Dinny. It was unintentional, a habit carried on from earlier days.

Mr. Dennis P. Gorman paused, and then expostulated:

“Oh! It was excellent. Excellent. Did you hear my daughter rendering a selection from Mozart and a nocturne from
Sho-pan
?
”