The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [284]
“Why, of course, Dad. I got two thousand. When will you need it?” Studs said heedlessly, and instantly he regretted the lie and couldn’t understand why he hadn’t mentioned the stock.
“That’s fine of you, Bill. and well, you know, it gives me a great feeling of pride to have a son like you.”
“Things are bound to get better, dad,” Studs said with suppressed emotion.
“It’s those goddamn Jew international bankers. And Bill, it ain’t fair. It ain’t right that a man should have so much worry and trouble in his old age, after working as hard as I have all my life and providing so well for my family. Your mother and I have earned the right to peace and comfort in our old age,” Lonigan protested.
Not knowing what to reply, Studs nodded agreement.
“I might just have to call on you, so I wanted to mention this matter in advance,” Lonigan said, sinking down in his chair, his chin lowering against his chest. Studs wished there was something he could say to help make his old man buck up.”
But suppose the old man asked for the money. Well, he could sell, pocket his loss, and let him have the rest. He asked himself why a guy’s life had to be one damn thing to worry about after another, and why wasn’t a guy never done with deciding things. Always, time after time, as soon as one thing was settled, and the worry erased, another thing popped up. A guy no sooner skirted out of one pickle than he had fallen into another one. It seemed as if almost every minute of a fellow’s life a knife was swinging over his neck, ready to slash into him at any unsuspected moment. When he’d been a kid, it had been the same, trouble at home, worry about school, something, and he had wished for the time when he grew up, because then he’d be free and not always having worries and dangers on his mind like so many wet blankets. Now he was a man. And he was damn tired, too.
“Bill, I only hope that when you’re my age you have a boy who’s as great a comfort to you as you are to me.”
“Yes, Dad,” Studs said, embarrassed, touched by the gentle note which had crept into his father’s voice; and he liked his old man a lot. It made him almost wince and feel like a traitor to think that he’d lied to him about the stock, and that he hadn’t even bothered to ask his advice before buying it. And if he mentioned it now, the old man would take it pretty badly.
“Yes, Bill, I used to worry about you a lot. For a while you were a pretty wild lad, but then, I guess all young lads who are worth their salt have to sow their wild oats. I was the same myself once. But now I have the feeling I can depend on you, and I just wanted to say so,” Lonigan said, mumbling his words.
A lump gathered in Studs’ throat. He was afraid because of the strong feelings that seemed to break and well up within him. And he felt like a louse, not worthy of his father’s trust. To regain his control, he lit a cigarette, inhaled, let the smoke escape through his nose.
“And, Bill, you got to watch your health. You’ve got to fight an uphill battle to win it back, just as I got to fight an uphill battle to get back where I was before these hard times set in.” Lonigan sat up erectly. “A Lonigan can be down, but he’s never out!”
Studs nodded thoughtfully, his eyes wandering about the parlor, at the baby grand piano, the legs scratched, the cabinet radio, the mirror, the subdued gray wallpaper, the ornate floor-lamp, the family pictures hung about the wall, and then at his father, brooding and corpulent.
Lonigan arose stiffly and muttered as he walked out of the parlor, “Goodnight, son.”
“Goodnight, Dad.”
Studs moved to the window and stood gazing down, hands in pocket. Across on the other side of the street, a couple emerged from shadows, arm in arm, walking slowly, passed through an area brightened by the glow of a street lamp, passed again into the shadows that fell from the large apartment motel. The sight made him want a girl, to kiss, to love, to talk to and hold at this minute, Catherine, Lucy, a girl. An automobile passed. He glanced at the apartment hotel, its lighted windows yellow squares against an indistinct, bulky background. What were the people behind those windows doing? What troubles, worries, problems did they have bothering them? He recalled how on the night he had graduated from grammar school, he had stood by the parlor window of their Wabash Avenue building, looking out after everyone had gone to bed. Then, he