The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [295]
Breathing rapidly with the tension within him, he opened the bathroom door. In the bedroom, Martin stood carelessly in front of the mirror, knotting a black-and-white striped necktie. Whistling a jazz tune, he turned. Meeting one another’s eyes, they glanced aside, shame-faced.
“What time is it, Studs?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“I’ll have to be stepping on it, I guess.”
“Me, too.”
Martin put on his jacket coat and overcoat.
“So long,” Studs said gutturally, buttoning a clean white shirt.
V
Abashed, Studs stepped into the parlor. Shutting off the radio, Lonigan cast a pained glance at his son.
“Bill, I’m very sorry.”
“Well, Dad, I’m sorry, too.”
“You got to be a father, I guess, to really understand what such things can do to a man.”
“Well... I didn’t want it to happen.”
“Bill, a great many things happen in life that we don’t want to.”
“We made up.”
“Fine. But, Bill, I’m sorry this happened between you and Martin. It’s an evil sign when brothers fight and snarl at each other like dogs under their parents’ own roof.”
Goddamn, Christ, if he’d only let Martin’s cracks pass off and had just acted sensibly. Why such false pride about whether or not he was afraid of his kid brother? He’d shown the world Studs Lonigan wasn’t yellow and hadn’t needed to be having a false pride at this late date.
“Bill, I know you and Martin won’t let such an unfortunate thing happen again. Your mother and me, we’re kind of getting along now, and these things hit us pretty hard.”
Studs looked away. He knew that he ought to be hustling away, and he stood with his eyes fixed blankly on the wall. He wanted to say something more, and .. what?
“Better go say goodbye to your mother and try to make her feel a little better.”
“I will, Dad.”
He walked slowly out to the kitchen, troubling over what he would say to his mother.
“Mom!” he muttered, seeing her bent over a pan full of dishes.
“Yes, son,” she said, turning toward him, eyes still raw from crying.
“I’m sorry.”
“Two sons of mine,” she said, turning back to her dishes, “fighting like wild animals under a roof that God has blessed.” She dreamily picked up a plate and set it down to her left. “My own flesh and blood, fighting like Cain and Abel. It’s a sin punishable by God.”
“It was an accident, Mom, and we didn’t mean it. We made up, and both of us are sorry.”
As she wiped away a tear with her soiled apron, she looked old to him. He guessed she must at least be around fifty-five. Christ! . He felt lousy doing this to her and the old man. He guessed, too, that they wouldn’t have such an awfully long time more to live. How did a person feel when he knew that in five or ten years he would probably be dead?
“Son, I’d have given my right arm not to have let it happen.”
“It won’t any more, Mom,” he said with hollow reassurance. Anxious to get out, he quickly put his arm around her, gave her a pecking kiss, patted her back.
“Goodbye, Mom, and please don’t worry or feel bad.”
She turned a weak, unhappy smile on him and sniffled. “Be good, son, and come home early.”
“Yes, Mom.”
He thought of how this thing would make them feel lousy all night.
“Goodbye,” he called from the front door, and he closed it, feeling like a heel.
CHAPTER SIX
I
“I wonder what it’s going to be like outside there?” a round-shouldered fellow said.
“I hope we’re not going to be left shanghaied in here much longer,” a wiry fellow on Studs’ left remarked.
“It can’t start too soon to satisfy me. My dogs have had enough wear already,” Studs said, leaning against the back wall in the crowded little room that buzzed with talk.
“It doesn’t particularly reflect to the credit of the Order of Christopher when the best waiting-room they can find for us is a sardine can like this stuffy hole. Hell, we haven