The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [34]
“Yeh,” said Helen, meaningfully.
He glanced at her; he told himself that she was nice-looking. He felt soft inside, as if his feelings were all fluid, all melting up and running through him like a warm stream of water. He didn’t know what he ought to say. He hurriedly glanced across the street. He saw Dennis P. Gorman tote his cane and his dignity down Indiana Avenue on his way to the police court. He laughed at High-Collars; and Helen said her father always called Gorman a mollycoddle who ought to be wearing corsets.
“You know, we’ll have to take a look at that can house sometimes,” Studs said, because he felt that he had better say something.
“Yeh!”
“I’d like to know what’s inside of a can house,” said Studs.
He was calmed down again, and he could look at her without feeling strange, and he wasn’t in danger of giving his feelings away. He noticed that she, too, had been looking away.
“Well, I suppose one of those places has got a lot of expensive furniture, and the whores all sit around in their underclothes and maybe they drink a lot, and you know,” she said.
“I’d sure like to see one some time,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Maybe we can sneak up on the porch sometimes,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“We might see someone doin’ it, too,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s so much,” said he.
“All the kids act as if they knew, but I’ll bet that none of them really do,” she said.
“I guess you’re right.”
She told him of the time that her dog, Billie, had cut its nose, and had accidentally rubbed a little blood on her night-gown. Her mother had seen the blood spot, and had gotten excited, and had tried to explain to Helen what things were all about, but Helen had known what her mother told her; and her mother hadn’t told about the thing that was the real bother; her mother hadn’t said a word of what it really felt like. As Helen told this to Studs, he got all excited, and seemed to see her before him, melting and fading. He felt like he’d have to do something, and he was afraid to try.
“Say, wouldn’t it be nicer back in the playhouse?” he said, keeping his voice under control as much as he could.
“We can’t go back and sit there now. My sister Marion and her girl chums are in it,” she said.
“Oh!” he said.
Nothing had seemed wrong in his asking, he guessed. So they sat there and talked. Helen asked him if he knew this Iris who took all kinds of guys up to her house when her mother wasn’t home, and let them all have a gang-shag. Studs said he didn’t know his, but he’d heard of her. Helen said that was going too far; it was like being a whore. Studs said yes.
But he wished he could horn in on one of those gang-shags.
Weary Reilley ambled around, and Helen grumbled a greeting to him. He asked if they’d seen Helen Borax, and they said no. Weary fooled around with the soccer ball, and they barbered about nothing in particular. Then they dribbled, one taking the ball, and the other two standing in a line to block the dribble. Weary had never played basketball, so he was awkward and clumsy and couldn’t do the trick right. He went at it rough-and-tumble. He got sore because Helen could make such a monkey out of him. He finally lost his bean and dribbled head on into her, bucking her breasts with his football shoulders. It hurt her. She cried; she knew he had done it meanly and on purpose. She told him so, and he called her a liar. She slammed him in the mush with the ball, and his eyes watered.
“Listen,” he said, preparing to rush her and let her have one.
Studs gripped Weary from the rear and held him in a firm clasp.
“Let me go, you sonofabitch,” Weary yelled.
Studs flung Weary around and then faced him.
“Who’s one?” asked Studs.
“Both of you, and she’s a whore,” said Weary.
“Why, Goddamn you,” said Helen.
“Take that back,” said Studs.
“From you!” sneered Weary.
Weary socked Studs in the jaw; Studs’ jaw flushed, Studs was confused; his breath came fast; maybe he was afraid; he had to fight; he forgot about everything but Weary in front of him. He hauled off and caught Weary on the knob with a wild right haymaker. They rushed into each other and swung. They broke their clinch and circled around. Weary rushed, and a wild uppercut that Studs had started from the ground a trifle before Weary had come in, caught Reilley on the button, Reilley was jogged back; he shook his head, and then walloped Studs with a left and right. But neither of them felt a lot. They fought, absorbed in punching each other. Every time they landed, a feeling of pleasure ran through them, pleasure at having done something physically successful. They fought, slugging, socking away, rushing, swinging with haymakers and wild swishing roundhouses.