The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [27]
Frances came in. She wore a thin nightgown. He could almost see right through it. He tried to keep looking away, but he had to turn his head back to look at her. She stood before him, and didn’t seem to know that he was looking at her. She seemed kind of queer; he thought maybe she was sick.
“Do you like Lucy?”
“Oh, a little,” he said.
He was excited, and couldn’t talk much, because he didn’t want her to notice it.
“Do you like to kiss girls?”
“Not so much,” he said.
“You did tonight.”
“It was all in the game.”
“Helen must like Weary.”
“I hate her.”
“I don’t like her either, but .. do you think they did anything in the post office?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She wasn’t going to pump him and get anything out of him.
She seemed to be looking at him, awful queer, all right.
“You know. Do you think they did anything that was fun or that the sisters wouldn’t want them to do... or that’s bad?”
“I don’t know.”
Dirty thoughts rushed to his head like hot blood. He told himself he was a bastard because... she was his sister. “I don’t know,” he said, confused.
“You think maybe they did something bad, and it was fun?” He shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window so she couldn’t see his face.
“I feel funny,” she said.
He hadn’t better say anything to her, because she’d snitch and give him away.
“I want to do something... They’re all in bed. Let’s us play leap frog, you know that game that boys play where one bends down, and the others jump over him?” she said.
“We’ll make too much noise.”
“Do you really think that Weary and Helen did anything that might be fun?” she asked.
She got up, and walked nervously around the room. She plunked down on the piano stool, and part of her leg showed.
He looked out the window. He looked back. They sat. She fidgeted and couldn’t sit still. She got up and ran out of the room. He sat there. He must be a bastard... she was his sister.
He looked out the window. He wondered what it was like; he was getting old enough to find out.
He got up. He looked at himself in the mirror. He shadow-boxed, and thought of Lucy. He thought of Fran. He squinted at himself in the mirror.
He turned the light out and started down the hallway. Fran called him. She was lying in bed without the sheets over her. “It’s hot here. Awful hot. Please put the window up higher.”
“It’s as high as it’ll go.”
“I thought it wasn’t.”
He looked at Fran. He couldn’t help it.
“And please get me some real cold water.”
He got the water. It wasn’t cold enough. She asked him to let the water run more. He did. He handed the water to her. As she rose to drink, she bumped her small breast against him.
She drank the water. He started out of the room. She called him to get her handkerchief.
“I’m not at all tired,” she said.
He left, thinking what a bastard he must be.
He went to the bathroom.
Kneeling down at his bedside, he tried to make a perfect act of contrition to wash his soul from sin.
He heard the wind, and was afraid that God might punish him, make him die in the night. He had found out he was old enough, but... his soul was black with sin. He lay in bed, worried, suffering, and he tossed into a slow, troubled sleep.