The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [168]
“Well, Red, I never expected to be here on an occasion like this.”
“Studs, when I heard it, you could have slapped me down with a feather. It’s very sad, too. It’s hit the poor mother hard, very hard. Arnold was her favorite, and he was always a little reckless, you know, a nice guy but a crazy bastard too when he was drunk, and that always caused her worry. And think of it, here he was sloughed off in the very prime of life.”
“Poor Arnold, the guy did run in bad luck,” Studs said.
“Like that time he was pie-eyed, and got stabbed by a shine; then he no sooner got his wounds healed up than he gets a dose.”
“Say, was he oiled when the accident happened?”
“No, he was on the wagon again. He had gone back to work for the city. Remember how he got canned from the job for being oiled and then went back?”
“Yep, that’s right.”
“He was riding home from work last Saturday, on a city truck, standing on the tail gate, and hanging on to a rope. The rope broke, and Arnold fell off. He cracked his skull. They took him to the County Hospital. He never came to, but in a coma he kept muttering for his mother. By luck a priest was gotten and he received Extreme Unction before he passed away. But when his mother got there he was dead. You know, Studs, it just goes to show that some people are born lucky, and others always live under an unlucky star,” Red said to Studs, who hadn’t been listening to him, but had rather been looking about from face to face, and smoking his cigar as if it were a ceremony.
“Jesus!” Studs suddenly exclaimed in expression of his reaction to the whole situation.
“Yep, that’s the way it is; you’re here today, and gone tomorrow,” Tommy Doyle said.
“And just think, I saw him at church last Sunday, feeling so swell, and dressed up like a lighthouse,” Red Kelly said.
“Life is sure funny,” Tommy remarked.
“And it always seems to get the guys who are white, and not the sons of bitches. Take a bastard like Weary Reilley. He’s a rat clean through, and he couldn’t do a decent trick if he tried. He goes around smashing guys he can lick in the mug, smacking girls to make them come across, and he’s even hit his helpless father. Well, now, nothing ever happens to him. I tell you, it’s one of the oddities of life and one of the mysteries of the Will of God that a guy who’s white almost never gets the grapes,” Red said.
“Reilley’s a skunk,” Studs said, kind of hoping that Red would mention how he had cleaned Weary as a kid.
“Too bad!” said Tommy.
“Where was the fire sale, Muggsy?” asked Studs as Muggsy McCarthy entered the room. He was more slumped and hollow than ever; but he wore a new dark gray suit.
“Muggsy, you look prosperous,” Doyle remarked.
“Boys, I’m working for the city now,” Muggsy said almost unnaturally exuberant.
“So you got in the political game, huh, Muggsy?” Tommy Doyle asked.
“Yeah, my old man took me back home and got me the job. I’m off that damn crap. There’s nothing to it, hanging around all the time with not even a son in your jeans. How you like the suit, boys?” Muggsy asked.
“I think I’ll get me into the political game,” Tommy said, while the boys examined Muggsy’s suit, and kidded him.
Like an apparition, Barney Keefe stood in the center of the room, and pointed at drunken Irish Mickey Flannagan; everybody laughed.
“And you, bitch! The last time I saw you, you passed out in a saloon over at Twelfth and Halsted, and the boys all took you on while you were dreaming of the birdies of the springtime,” Barney said, pointing at Mrs. Haggerty; she smiled feebly and apologetically.
“Yeah, Tommy, you never know when you’re called,” Studs said, profoundly feeling the uncertainty of life, sensing a sudden fear lest he be the next of the boys called, buoying himself up with the feeling that he was strong and well and taking care of himself and wouldn’t need to worry about death for a long, long time.
“Hey, Barney, where you think you’re at,” Red said, sore because Barney was keeping up the horseplay.
“I thought I came to a wake, but seeing all you flannel-mouth Irish here, I guess it’s a saloon or a poolroom,