Studs lonigan, p.72
Studs Lonigan, page 72
“I know how it is,” Studs said.
As they arose, Studs laid a dime tip under his plate. He lit a cigarette and paid his check.
“Christ, I wish the day’s work was done,” he said.
“We’ll get it done, all right. I never fell down on a job for Paddy Lonigan yet, and I’m too old a dog to be learning new tricks. I told him we’d finish today and by God, we will.”
Studs noticed that Mort was a little stooped, and had about him the manner of a man weakening with age. Christ, would he become like that some day? Or like his father? Or wouldn’t he even live long enough for that? The doctor turning him down for the insurance company. . . . Thinking of that, he hastily shot the butt of his halfsmoked cigarette. His body was heavy, sluggish.
“Say, what’s the crowd?” he said in sudden surprise, pointing at a crowd around the corner ahead, seeing a policeman whose star caught and reflected glints of sunlight.
“Must be the bank or else an accident.”
“Let’s step on it and see,” Studs said, a sense of eagerness and curiosity tingling him into an energetic state.
“I don’t see that it’s worth hurrying about. We’ll come to it.”
“It’s something funny, all right. Cops there, too,” Studs said, walking a pace ahead of Mort.
Approaching, he saw that the crowd was milling about a bank, and that a line of people cut out from the bank entrance onto the sidewalk. He felt the same as if he were running to a fire. Excitement. He saw that there were a number of policemen and that people in the crowd were talking and gesticulating.
“Watch out,” Mort called, pulling him back from the car-track.
He heard the dinging gong of the street car and saw one sweep past him. His heart beat rapidly. He held his breath in an after-fear.
“Got to watch yourself, lad.”
He looked ahead and to his side for traffic.
“Close,” he said, sighing, the terror of being run over clinging.
“Robbers,” a thin and wizened man of about forty-five said loudly as they stepped onto the curb.
Studs edged through the crowd, squeezing close to the line of people, crushed together, waiting to go forward, held in order by police who swung and twirled their menacing nightsticks in the air. His eye ran up and down the faces, anxious men and women. He saw a Jewish woman, frantically biting her finger-nails, and beside her a powerful man in his prime with a pale face, nervous eyes, almost trembling lips. Almost crapping in their pants, all right, he reflected. Maybe his dough was, after all, just as safe in stock as the banks. Hell, if it went on like this where would a guy’s dough be safe? If he kept it home he might be robbed. If he socked it in a bank, the bank might go under. If he bought stock, the market might crash. Christ, what a goofy world it was becoming.
“Oh, God! And my mother home sick. Oh, God, what will I do if I don’t get my money?” a middle-aged woman said, her eyes watery, her hair dishevelled under her black felt hat.
“I guess it’s a bank going on the fritz, all right,” Studs said to Mort who had edged in beside him.
“There’s no trouble. People just get excited. Irresponsible people, like the Reds, spread these rumors around, to cause trouble,” a fellow near Studs said.
“You work all your life and put your money in the bank and dese robbers, dese robbers, take it. You woirk all your life, eh, and then you say no, maybe it’s nottin’, just excitement. Yah,” a tall, dour-faced, redmustached foreigner in overalls exclaimed.
The fellow gave the foreigner a look of contempt and turned away.
“Nottin’! Nottin’! for a working man to lose his money. Yah, nottin’?”
Studs wondered was the foreigner in overalls a Red. He didn’t like him because he looked too much like the type who became bald-headed crabby janitors.
“You got anything in it?” Studs asked.
“Working men don’t have much money,” the fellow said, growling, and Studs thought that he had a lot of crust shooting his bazoo off when it wasn’t any skin off his teeth.
He noticed people squeezing out of the bank, and the line of people crushing forward. He and Mort edged toward the bank entrance, and they watched a gray-haired woman, with a creased, rough-skinned peasant face, a black shawl over her head, edge out with the blustering assistance of a policeman. Crisp money stuck from the edges of the bank book which she clutched fiercely in gnarled fingers.
“This way, mother,” a burly, ruddy-faced policeman said, taking her arm and leading her across the street.
“Lucky old bitch!” Studs heard someone in the waiting line grumble.
“Hot roasted peanuts. Get something for your money while you can. Hot roasted peanuts!” a greasy man, wearing a white soda-jerker’s coat, shouted.
The crowd seemed constantly to be increasing, and the police shoved and pushed in their efforts to preserve order. Again and again Studs caught the glances of fright on people’s faces, the nervousness they revealed by biting their lips, furtively looking about, grimacing. Something was wrong somewhere, all right, and he guessed these people would have a goddamn legitimate squawk if they lost their dough.
A well-dressed man, with a sleek face and a white carnation in his buttonhole, emerged from the bank, smiling.
“Nothing wrong. Only a scare. Why, even a priest got up on a table in the bank and spoke, telling everybody to be calm and leave their money in there where it’s safe. He waved his bank book to show that he was leaving his parish funds in, and that’s where I left all my dough,” Studs heard the fellow say in a blustering, self-confident manner.
“You tink so?” a wary little hook-nosed man asked.
“Sure thing, brother. Look,” the fellow with the carnation in his buttonhole said, waving his bank book.
A cheer went up. Studs was caught in the middle of a wave of pushing people. He squeezed himself slowly to a curb edge and saw an armored car and four armed guards escorting two men carrying money through a lane to the entrance made by the police. Studs smiled. The bank maybe wouldn’t fail, and these people wouldn’t lose their dough. The fewer banks that failed, the better off everything would be all around.
Mort touched his sleeve and they walked away, another cheer arising behind them.
“Fierce! Fierce! Money makes people into dogs,” Mort said.
“Hell on a lot of ’em if the bank fails. But maybe it won’t. They were bringing in more money, and I just heard a fellow saying that a priest in a parish around here was in the bank speaking to the people, telling them to leave their dough in.”
“I hope so. I know what it means to people to be poor in their old age.”
“Well, it’s more than I can make out,” Studs said, shaking his head.
“And it’s a quarter after one. We got to hustle,” Mort said.
Studs felt sluggish and tired again. Jesus, if the day was only over.
III
“Did you get finished, Bill?”
“Yes, dad,” Studs called from the hall, entering in his paint-splotched work clothes, tired.
“I’m glad of that. You know, by getting done today, you and Mort saved me some money, and these days I got to figure on every possible economy,” Lonigan said as Studs walked into the parlor and slumped in an easy chair.
“There was a run on a bank on Seventy-fifth. I forget the name.
“Must be the Chemical Deposits. Did it fail?”
“No, because on my way home I asked a cop who was standing in front of it, and he said it hadn’t. I asked him what had caused the run, and he said he thought the Reds had spread a false rumor. The bank officials gave every depositor who didn’t take his dough out, a carnation to put in his buttonhole, the cop told me.”
“What the hell good would that do the people?”
“I don’t know. And the cop was a mick, and he was proud because a Catholic priest, pastor of one of the parishes near the bank, saved it by getting on a table and telling everybody to have confidence and go home. He left all his parish funds in,” Studs said.
“Those damn Reds bellyaching and agitating in times like these when everybody ought to get right to it to help keep the ship afloat! And, Bill, I also heard the Reds were egging on the niggers in the black belt. That’s sheer dynamite.” Lonigan gritted his teeth. “Anyway, I’m glad I haven’t any money tied up in that bank. But I’ve got a couple of bills due from fellows out there in that vicinity. I suppose, if the bank crashes, these guys will claim they lost all they own, whether they did or not, and squirm out of paying me. I lost three thousand bucks already from fellows who’ve pulled that gag on me. But even so, I collected some money today at last from a guy on the west side who’s been welshing payment on a job I done for him six months ago. And he promised more next month.” Lonigan seemed to drift into brooding. Suddenly, he continued, “Collecting bills these days is sure one hell of a job.”
Mrs. Lonigan appeared with a glass of milk, and Studs drank half of it in one gulp.
“William, you shouldn’t drink so fast!”
“How were Phil and Loretta when you saw them last night?”
“Oh, pretty good.”
“Phil say how business was going with him?”
“Pretty good.”
“Well, that makes me glad. He’s a smart Jew, I mean a smart boy. It’s a relief on a man’s mind to know that his two sons-in-law are getting along.”
Studs was distressed with fear that his old man was going to get confidential. His old man would, when he got that way, lay parts of himself open, bare, and he would seem so weak that Studs didn’t like it. And suddenly he was tempted to speak about his stock.
“What did you say, Bill?”
“Nothing, I was just going to say it’s pretty damn swell Phil and Carroll are clicking so well.”
“Yes, oh yes,” Lonigan said.
“Well, I guess I’ll clean up for supper,” Studs said, leaving his father sitting immobile.
IV
“I’m still tempted to go along and watch you tomorrow,” Lonigan said, arising from the supper table.
“Patrick, why don’t you?”
“Maybe I will, Mary.”
“I wonder if it is going to be like a fraternity initiation?” Martin said, dropping a crumpled napkin beside his plate and pushing his chair back.
“Martin!” Lonigan said in an injured tone. “You know that the Order of Christopher is more serious than a bunch of high-school kids.”
“William, I’m so glad you’re joining,” the mother said, while Martin smirked superciliously.
“I’ve seen a few initiations in my time and they were beauts,” Lonigan chuckled.
“And won’t I laugh if Studs comes home with his face full of lumps.”
“Martin, get that out of your head. It’s the wrong slant,” Lonigan said ponderously. “The Order of Christopher isn’t a gang of barbarians. Nearly every leading Catholic of importance in this country is a Christy.”
“I was just kidding.”
“But, Martin, the Order of Christopher is no more the kind of a thing that you should kid about than your religion is the kind of a thing you would mock.”
“Anyway, I hope that I’m not letting myself in for something,” Studs said.
“Bill, that’s not exactly the best way to express it. It’s not something you just let yourself in for.” A chuckle seemed to roll out of him, and he beamed. “But, golly, I’ve seen some initiations that were beauts. I’ve half a mind to see them put you through tomorrow.”
“Father, do go. It’ll take your mind off other worries,” Mrs. Lonigan said.
“But if I did, I’d miss Father Moylan on the radio,” Lonigan said, turning into the hallway and adding, without glancing back, “I’ll think about it.”
“Got a date with the sweetie tonight?” Martin asked, yawning.
“Yeh,” Studs gutturally replied.
“William, do come home early, because you’re going to communion in the morning and you must be up early.”
“I know it. Catherine and I are going to confession, and then after we have a little bite of something I’ll come home.”
“That’s fine, son. Do come home, because you need your eight hours’ rest,” she said, disappearing with an armful of dishes.
“William, you’re a good boy,” Martin mocked, turning his back on Studs to leave the room.
“Can that wise stuff before you get your puss slapped!” Studs barked before he realized what he was saying.
“Oh, you will, will you!” Martin retorted with a voice of challenging sarcasm.
“Yes!” Studs said, hoping it would go no further, and instantly so tense that he was short of breath. Martin was getting too wise for his own health anyway, and sooner or later, for his own good, some of that sass would have to be slapped out of him.
Martin lip-farted.
“Think you’re tough and wise!” Studs said, moving around the table toward Martin, who stood by the hallway entry, sneering, nonchalant with his hands in his pockets.
“Tougher than you any day in the week.”
“Listen, can that crap while you’re all together!” Studs said, tempering his voice to give Martin an opening for dropping the quarrel.
“I’m all together and I’ll stay that way,” Martin loudly rasped.
“Boys! Boys!” Mrs. Lonigan called nervously from the kitchen.
“I’m telling you to cut it out.”
“Cut what out? Make me!”
Studs shoved Martin slightly, and he was rocked backward by a hard clip on the jaw. Martin went into him with two swinging fists, and Studs, surprised off-balance, slammed against a chair, which catapulted to the floor. Groping and grabbing under a rain of blows, he worked himself into the protection of a clinch.
“Come on, you has-been,” Martin sneered, freeing himself from Studs’ arms.
“Patrick!” Mrs. Lonigan screamed, rushing in from the kitchen.
“Yes,” he called from the parlor.
Another chair crashed. Martin freed himself from the clinch, and Studs drove up an uppercut. Martin grimaced and flailed into Studs. Breathing heavily, with no real heart for the fight, Studs took a stiff right on the jaw, a numbing sensation spread to his head, and he had a sickening headache.
“Pat, there’s a lot of snotty young punks these days whose talk is louder than their actions,” Martin said, curling his lips, pushing Studs back against the radiator, slamming him on the ear.
Mrs. Lonigan screamed shrilly, dropped to the floor like a sack.
His ear stung, hot with a buzzing sensation, and, impotently infuriated, Studs edged away from the radiator, knowing that he had used himself up. He tried to stall off by waving his left fist before him. Martin pounced down on him. A wild left punch grazed his jaw, and he clinched. Martin shoved him back, as if he were powerless. He knew that he was whipped, humiliatingly, and that he could not quit. Hatred flared in him, and against the nausea in his head, his pounding heart, jerking breath, tired arms and shoulders, stung ear, hurt jaw, his hatred and his will were vain. Martin was on him again. Studs strove to set himself in the in-fighting, grunted, maneuvered to work his shoulder up against Martin’s chin, and almost crumbled from a sharp pain as Martin smashed down with a kidney punch.
“Cut it out!” Lonigan bellowed.
He saw Mrs. Lonigan, pallid and unconscious on the floor, and pointed. The sons, surprised by his command, followed his finger, staring helpless, guilty. The three of them converged over the prostrate Mrs. Lonigan.
“A fine thing to do to your mother.”
They set Mrs. Lonigan on a chair and awkwardly revived her.
“Oh, God! Why do I deserve this? My own boys, my own flesh and blood, fighting under my sacred roof! Oh!”
Lonigan’s lips compressed: shaking his mortified head slowly from side to side, depressed more than angry.
“I’m ashamed of you boys,” he said, and neither of them dared look him in the eye.
“He was too wise,” Studs mumbled unconvincingly.
“I’m not being pushed around. He can’t even take a joke,” Martin stuttered.
“Hell of a way to take a joke, if you ask me, knocking each other all over the dining room.”
“He started it,” Martin said.
“I did like hell,” Studs flung back, his side stiff and hurt from the kidney punch, his breathing still too rapid.
“Come on, now, shake hands and call it quits!” Lonigan said as Studs turned aside and winced with the stabbing pain still remaining from that kidney punch.
The two sons looked at each other, their faces drawn.
“I haven’t anything against him, but nobody’s shoving me around,” Martin said, he and Studs looking at each other, their faces drawn.
“No hard feelings,” Studs said lifelessly, their limp hands clasping.
Lonigan glanced apologetically down at his wife, who sat with head lowered, hair dishevelled, quivering as she sobbed.
In the bathroom, Studs studied his face in the mirror, momentarily pleased that there were no marks on his face, except for the redness of his ear. But that sock in the ear had told. His ear burned yet. And he was sore from that kidney punch. His heart pounded on him and he was sick with a headache from jolting punches. He felt all in, just like a has-been.
Still observing himself in the mirror, he tried to convince himself that it was not important. His pride rose, mangled, torn, stepped on, hurting him even more than Martin’s fists had. Treated as a has-been, completely dismissed by his kid brother, the same way Jack Sharkey would dismiss some broken-down palooka who didn’t count.
He cursed Martin, and, unhappy, lit a cigarette. Again he told himself that it wasn’t important. No matter how tough you were, there was always somebody tougher. It wasn’t important. And it hadn’t been a fair fight because he wasn’t in condition to battle. He’d like to have seen Martin get wise before he’d gotten that attack of pneumonia and his heart had gone flooey on him! It was no shame to be beaten when you were in bad health. And even so, he might still have slapped Martin down if he hadn’t been taken by surprise.
