The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [370]
“It’s only right. America is America, and it should be for Americans,” Studs said.
“You’re damn right it should be. And you know who’s going to wake Americans up? It’s men like Father Moylan who speaks on the radio every Sunday. He tells ‘em, and he talks straight. Men like him have got to wake the country up.”
“And he’s a Catholic, too,” Studs said proudly.
“He’s one of the finest and smartest men in America, and he tells the people what’s what. He lays into the bankers, too, and by God, they’ve got it coming to them.”
“I got to listen to him more often.”
“Yes, Bill, you should. He’s a brainy man and you learn what’s going on from him,” Lonigan said, and he chuckled. “Say, the way he gives hell to Hoover, it’s a treat.”
“If it wasn’t for bigots, Al Smith would have been elected,” Studs said regretfully.
“I know. They played Al dirt,” yawning and arising. “I guess I better be getting cleaned up and shaved.”
Lonigan picked up his newspaper and resumed reading.
III
Catherine kissed him lackadaisically. There were no sounds around them, only the pleasing darkness, and they sat locked in each other’s arms, their breathing tired, their clothing mussed and askew. Catherine looked away from him. He glanced upward at the overhanging tent of tall and leafy trees, idly watching stray rays of sudden moonlight that silvered the top layers of leaves. Away off somewhere, like a strange sound, he heard the noise of an automobile.
Freeing himself from her arms, he sat erect, and thought, Jesus, if somebody should come by now. Embarrassed and ashamed, he stood up with his back to her, buttoned himself, pressed down his hair, fingered his tie. Shyly, she turned, pulled down and smoothed her wrinkled dress, hooked up her stockings, pushed back her disarranged hair.
He slouched down beside her on the bench and looked at the black wall of bushes opposite, a narrow and uneven stream of moonlight unexpectedly flowing through them while a slight wind scratched the leaves. He shifted his glance, and partially closed his eyes to get a different sight of the bushes. He made an effort of lighting a cigarette.
Catherine sniffled.
“Bill,” she sobbed.
Studs turned toward her, frightened, and took her hand.
“Bill, dear, I can’t stand this. I can’t go on sneaking the way we got to, as if this was something awful between us, afraid of being caught or seen by somebody, having to be ashamed of doing this when we love each other, and have to be sneaking about it in the park and in my hallway. And even that awful time in the taxicab. I can’t stand even the idea of it, and if we were caught by someone, some stranger, I’m afraid I’d even kill myself.”
“Kid .. .” he said, looking down at her while she sobbed with her head against his shoulder. He had no other words to utter. Puzzled, he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Bill, we got to get married!”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“But won’t it seem a little queer to everybody? And it will take a little time for us to get ready, won’t it? We’ll have to have the banns published and fix things up.”