The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [404]
He sneezed, coughed, full of fear. He was sick. He wanted to go home, get his clothes off and fall into bed. He was tired. His arms pained, and an ache wormed straight down his backbone. His feet were so leaden that walking was an effort. His underwear was sticky, his clothes heavy. To get home and in a bed of clean, white sheets, resting, sleeping endlessly, forgetting everything that was on his mind. He tried to walk fast, but slowed down. Too much for him. His heart was leaping. His feet were getting more soaked with every step.
He had just made a mess of every damn thing. The thought of Catherine, her love and devotion alone, gave him confidence, and he wasn’t worthy of her, he had been false to her. He was through. Studs Lonigan, hang up your glove. Studs Lonigan, you’re through. He was beaten and whipped and he did not know what to do. He could only crawl to Catherine, ask her to forgive and take care of a louse named Studs Lonigan.
He sneezed again, and his head pounded. He realized that he had a headache. A nauseous taste arose from his stomach. He had to get home. He walked through the tunnel leading underneath Michigan Boulevard to the Van Buren Illinois Central Station. Waiting for the train, he bought a newspaper and read a headline.
RIOT AS BANK FAILS
But he was too tired, too tired to read.
“South Chicago,” an announcer barked.
Studs staggered through the doors to the long, narrow platform, slouched into a seat by a window. He sneezed and coughed, and damp, dirty, tired, he wished the train ride would end quickly. He touched his cheeks. Warm. Thirsty. Must have a fever. He was sick. Maybe he was going to die. Oh, God, please don’t let him die. Please only let him get home to sleep, sleep, sleep. He let his chin sink on his chest. He felt as if he were going to vomit. He wanted to moan, and fought back his impulse.
“I was walking down Sixty-seventh Street, and he smiled at me. And he had such a nice smile. He! He! I didn’t mean to smile, but I couldn’t help myself. But then I walked right on like a good little girl, and he came along, and when I was looking into the window of a hat store, he stood there, and I smiled again. And he had such a nice smile,” a girl in the seat in back of him was saying, and he heard her dimly.
Broads and people in the train, and, oh, he was sick. He was sick, he silently repeated to himself. His eyes closed. His head and body sagged. Opening his eyes, he saw the broad, wet expanse of Stony Island from the moving train window. Almost home. The broads in back talking. Soon now, a bed, clean white sheets. He got up, tried to walk straight to the end of the car. Leaning against the side of the car platform, he saw a flashing picture of Seventy-first Street. Oh, Christ, what was going to become of him?
“Bryn Mawr.”
He stepped off the train, forced himself to walk west to the street, and he ran down Jeffrey for about a hundred yards. He halted from exhaustion, stood gasping with his heart pounding like a dynamo. His cheeks were hot. His tongue felt coated. His underwear was wet with sweat. He could just drop right down on the sidewalk, and sleep, sleep. He walked feverishly on, his shoes sopping oozy bubbles with every step, his side cut with a pain, his over-stimulated heart a bombardment with his diaphragm. A feeling of congestion and pressure grew in his lungs. He sniffed. His nose drooled. He coughed up slimy green mucus.
He stopped and like a drunken man watched an automobile splash by. Suddenly, a cold chill iced his body, and the rain slapped against his cheeks, dripped from his hat. Dizzy, he staggered off the sidewalk and supported himself against a building, looking dazed at an apartment hotel building, seeing, as if in a nightmare, two men come out of it and walk rapidly toward Seventy-first Street. The building began to waver and dance before his eyes. Funny. The building was doing the shimmy. He shook his head, as if that gesture would clear his mind and permit him to see clearly. He lurched to the sidewalk, zigzagged, telling himself, Christ, God, Jesus Christ, God Almighty, he had to get home. Against his will, he closed his eyes, walked with lowered head. His shoulder slipped against a lamp-post, and, feeling himself falling, he opened his eyes like one awakening from sleep, circled the post with his arms, hung to it. He straightened up and walked on, his face burning, his body wracked with a succession of hot spells and chills. He could feel his shirt wringing wet against his back, and there was an unpleasant tightness in his crotch. With the sleeve of his raincoat, he wiped his dripping nose, streaking his upper lip. The rain beat on him, and he lurched up the steps of his father