The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [105]
Studs was sore, but words just choked up in him.
“You understand now. You come with me in the morning!” A dangerous pause.
“I can find a job, maybe tomorrow,” Studs said, immediately perceiving that his words had weakly fizzled.
“I told you what you’d do!” the old man half-shouted.
“I’ll find my own job!” Studs said swiftly and breathlessly, as he jumped to his feet.
“For once, you do what I say! In the morning, you start turning over a new leaf... And, yes, you might as well stay in tonight so’s to get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it in the morning.”
“I’m my own boss!”
“Why, you goddamn little .. .”
A red flush from the slap he got appeared on Studs’ left cheek. Uncontrolled tears welled forth. He wanted to hit back. He was afraid of his father. He sniffled without will.
The old man dropped back to his rocker, held his head in his hands. Studs looked at him, imagined himself smashing the old bastard’s face till it bled and swelled. He stood impotently.
“You heard me! Tomorrow! Now get the hell out of my sight before I give you the trimming you deserve, you dirty little whelp!”
“Patrick! What’s happened?” the old lady said, coming to the entry way, as Studs, still bawling, turned to go.
“William!...William!”
“I’m leaving here!” Studs said, brushing past her.
“Did you hit him?” the mother demanded.
“And I’ll hit again. After all I done for him, the dirty little ingrate, defying me! All right, go on, get out, and don’t come back. I don’t ever want to see you again!”
“Patrick Lonigan! How dare you! Striking my son, my own flesh and blood! Ordering my precious first-born baby out of my home!”
“Mary, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t tell me what I’m to do in my home! And don’t be wastin’ your sympathy. What he needs is to get the tar kicked out of him. And if he wants to live here, he’ll do what I tell him!”
In his room, Studs was proud of himself for having defied the old man. Glad, too, that his father and mother were having a big blowout. He cried; well, he was so goddamn sore, he couldn’t help it.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Fran said, stopping in his doorway.
“Mind your own goddamn business!”
“How dare you curse me!” she said, shocked.
“For Christ sake, shut your trap!”
She rushed into the parlor, and shrieked in a high-pitched voice. It was like a nut-house now. He slipped into his old lady’s room, and copped five bucks from her pocketbook. He got his rusty old gat from its hiding place at the bottom of his closet. He put on his cap, and went to the bathroom. He saw that his eyes were red from crying. He tried to hide the redness with Fran’s powder. He was ashamed of himself.
“My son... my son!” his mother muttered, trying to block his path at the front door.
“I’m going!”
“William, your father just lost his temper. Go in and tell him you’re sorry and...”
“I can take care of myself!” he said, viciously slamming the door.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to Dad. Come back,” Fran begged, pursuing him in the hallway.
“Take your lousy hands off me!”
His parents called him from the window. He didn’t look at them. At the corner, he turned, and saw his old man coming out of the building. He ran, ditching the old man by running through alleys and gangways.
III
With dew-soaked feet, Lonewolf Lonigan tramped across the ball field at Washington Park. He suddenly wheeled around, thinking that he had heard approaching footsteps. He looked in back of him; darkness. He gazed all around at the surrounding blackness, the extended shadows of bushes on the edge of the park suddenly losing themselves in an awfulness of night. To his right, and several blocks away, was the illumination of the park refectory. The lights of a passing automobile showed like fleeting electric pinpoints and vanished.
To get rid of the thoughts he was having about himself and the darkness, he whipped out his gat, and pulled the trigger, the hammer clicking.