Studs Lonigan (18 page)

They came to the park, where it was cooler. She walked more slowly, and they gazed idly about them. Everything was sun-colored, and people walked around as if they had nothing to do. It was nice out, all right, with the sky all so blue and the clouds all puffed and white, and floating as if they were icebergs in a sea that didn't have any waves. And he thought it would be fine if he and Lucy could have wings and fly away past the sky; he thought about their flying away, flying right through clouds, and way past the other side of the sky, where there was nothing, and they flew through nothing until they came to some kind of a place with a palace, and servants, and everything they wanted to make them happy, and all Studs had to do to get the place, for himself and Lucy, was to clean up on a couple of big boloneys that owned it. But he called a stop to these thoughts, and told himself that Studs Lonigan was not the kind of a gee to have goofy thoughts like that. She said that it was awfully nice. Studs said that it was cooler in the park than it was outside. They glanced off at their left, and saw the playground, surrounded by shrubbery and an iron picket fence. From inside they could hear the shouts of playing children. They saw the swings, with the colored shirts and dresses of kids flashing, disappearing, flashing above the shrubbery, a momentary rhythm in the sunlight. It all sounded and seemed as if it belonged to the park. Lucy said that she thought it would be nicer to walk around than to go into the playground, because anyway, it was for little kids, and if they went in they'd get all hot and dirty, playing. Studs thought, too, that if old skinand-bones crabby Hall kicked him out for being too old right in front of Lucy, he would be so ashamed he could never look her in the face again. Studs deeply pondered the idea of not going to the playground, and said that it was a good idea; yes, he repeated, it was a good idea. As they crossed, their feet sank in the asphalt drive that was gooey on account of the heat, and they moved onto grass that was like velvet and bright with many colors from the sun. She took his hand; they walked, swinging hands, heads lowered, not saying anything to each other.

As they walked over to the wooded island, Studs felt, knew, that it was going to be a great afternoon, different from every other afternoon in his whole life. They walked on, not talking, but the way she held his hand made him feel good, and he repeated to himself that it was one of his days. They crossed the log bridge over onto the island ... a spread of irregularly wooded and slightly hilly ground with the sheep pen at one end of it. They walked on until they came to a full-leaved large oak that stood near the bank. It looked nice and they decided to climb it, and sit on one of the large branches. Studs helped her, and saw her clean wash bloomers. He was tempted, and wondered if he ought to try feeling her up. He remembered Marion Shires, and the other little kids, and wondered if he ought to, and how he might ask Lucy to have a show party with him. He got excited. But when they were up in the tree, and Lucy was laughing about her dirtied dress and the little scratch on her hand, he forgot all about these temptations. They sat, not having much to say, and he held her hand.

Below them, a man and wife moved, watching their baby stumble and giggle ahead of them. Lucy watched the kid, a piggish-faced child, and told Studs that it was awfully cute. She suddenly lowered her head, muttered shyly that she would probably never get married and have children. Studs was a little surprised, because girls like Lucy weren't supposed to think about such things. He told himself that if she was like that Iris from Carter School it would be different, and he could understand it. But Lucy! He wondered if he ought to try feeling her up, and he tried to think up an answer for her; but his mouth was dry, and all he could think of was the lump in his throat. Three times he asked himself what he ought to say. He watched the group below disappear. He finally said that it had been a cute kid. Lucy said yes. Lucy said that she was never going to marry and become a mother, because she was going to join a convent and be a nun. She talked as if she was mad about something. Studs wondered what was the matter. He looked at her, and her face seemed to melt in a misty sort of asking expression. He asked her if she thought she had the call to be a nun, and she said yes, she was going to become a nun. Studs said that she ought to think it over first; he told himself that he loved her, and wanted her not to become a nun, and knew that she wouldn't if he could only tell her the way he loved her, but he didn't know what he wanted to say, because it wasn't words but a feeling he had for her, a feeling that seemed to flow through him like nice, warm water. She told him yes, she had definitely made up her mind. Her voice sounded angry, and he wondered what was the matter.

The breeze playing upon them through the tree-leaves was fine. Studs just sat there and let it play upon him, let it sift through his hair. He said that it was nice and cool; he said that it was cooler in the trees than it was on the ground. Lucy said yes it was, and she didn't seem interested, and it made him still wonder what was the matter. The wind seemed to Studs like the fingers of a girl, of Lucy, and when it moved through the leaves it was like a girl, like Lucy, running her hand over very expensive silk, like the silk movie actresses wore in the pictures. The wind was Lucy's hand caressing his hair. It was a funny thought to have, and Studs felt goofy and fruity about having it, and felt that he hadn't better let anyone know he had thoughts like that; he wouldn't tell her. But he did; he told her the wind was like the hand of a pretty girl, and when it touched the leaves, it was like that pretty girl stroking very fine silk. She laughed, and said that it was a very funny and a very silly thought for a person like Studs Lonigan to have. It made him ashamed of himself, and very silent, and he wished that he was somewhere else and Lucy was not with him, probably laughing at him like she was in her mind.

They sat. There seemed to be a silence on the park. Nothing but the wind. Studs could hear his heart beating like it was a noisy clock. He felt as if he was not in Washington Park, but that he and Lucy were in some place else, a some place else that was just not Washington Park, but was better and prettier, and no one else knew of it. He glanced about him. He looked at the grass which slid down to the bank, and at the shrubbery along parts of the lagoon edge. He gazed out at the silver-blue lagoon that was so alive, like it was dancing with the sun. He watched the rowboats, the passing people. He took squints at everything from different angles, and watched how their appearances would change, and they would look entirely different. He listened to the sounds of the park, and it seemed as if they were all, somehow, part of himself, and he was part of them, and them and himself were free from the drag of his body that had aches and dirty thoughts, and got sick, and could only be in one place at a time. He listened. He heard the wind. Far away, kids were playing, and it was nice to hear the echoes of their shouts, like music was sometimes nice to hear; and birds whistled, and caroled, and chirped, and hummed. It was all new-strange, and he liked it. He told Lucy it was swell, sitting in the park, way up in a tree. Lucy said yes, it was perfectly grand. Studs said: YEAH!

“It's so lovely here,” she said, leaning toward him, puckering her lips. Studs looked at her. Without knowing what he was doing, he kissed her. It was all-swell to kiss Lucy, and it was different from a game where she had to kiss him, and everybody was kissing everybody else. And she kissed with her red lips in a queer sweet way; and he kept telling himself that it was fine to kiss her. In the movies, and in the magazines, which he sometimes read, the fellow always kissed the girl at the end of the story or the picture, and the kiss always seemed to mean so much, and to be so much nicer, and to have so much more to it than ordinary kisses. Kissing Lucy was getting a kiss like that. And it made him feel ... all-swell.

And everything just kept on being perfectly jake, not spoiling it there with him and Lucy. They sat. There he was, and there was Lucy, swinging her legs, singing
The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia,
and it was nice, and he told himself that no afternoon in his whole life had been like this one, not even the afternoon after he had licked the stuffings out of Weary Reilley. He had felt sick from the fight then, and the gang had all been around and made things a lot different from now, with himself and Lucy sharing and owning all the niceness themselves. And he had a feeling that this was a turning point in his life, and from now on everything was going to be jake. He had always felt that some time something would happen to him, and it was the thing that was going to make his whole life different; and this afternoon was just what was going to turn the trick; it was Lucy. Living was going to be swell now, and different from and nicer than it had ever been before. The only thing the matter with it all was that it couldn't last forever. That was the way things were; they ended, just when they began to be most jake.

A bird cooed above them. He usually thought it was sissified to listen or pay attention to such things as birds singing; it was crazy, like being a guy who studied music, or read too many books, or wrote poems and painted pictures. But now he listened; it was nice; he told himself how nice it was.

If some of the kids knew what he was doing and thinking, they'd laugh their ears off at him. Well, if they did, let ‘em; he could kick a lot of mustard out of the whole bunch of 'em. He gazed up at the bird. Some white stuff dropped on him, and somehow, seeing the bird that sang like this one doing that, well, it kind of hurt him, and told him how all living things were, well, they weren't perfect; just like the sisters had said they weren't in catechism. He was glad Lucy hadn't noticed it. They sat. Lucy touched his sleeve, and told him to listen to the bird music. He listened. But Lucy was suddenly distracted by an oh-socute-and-so-darling baby, being led below them by a nursemaid.

They sat. Studs swinging his legs, and Lucy swinging hers, she chattering, himself not listening to it, only knowing that it was nice, and that she laughed and talked and was like an angel, and she was an angel playing in the sun. Suddenly, he thought of feeling her up, and he told himself that he was a bastard for having such thoughts. He wasn't worthy of her, even of her fingernail, and he side-glanced at her, and he loved her, he loved her with his hands, and his lips, and his eyes, and his heart, and he loved everything about her, her dress, and voice, and the way she smiled, and her eyes, and her hair, and Lucy, all of her. He sat, swinging his legs, restless, happy, and yet not so happy, because he was afraid that he might be acting like a droop, or he might be saying or doing something to make her mad. He wanted the afternoon never to end, so that he and Lucy could sit there forever; her hands stole timidly into his, and he forgot everything in the world but Lucy.

“Isn't it awfully nice here?” she said.

“Yeah!” gruffed he.

He wanted to say more, and he couldn't. He wanted to let her know about all the dissolving, tingling feelings he was having, and how he felt like he might be the lagoon, and the feelings she made inside of him were like the dancing feelings and the little waves the sun and wind made on it; but those were things he didn't know how to tell her, and he was afraid to, because maybe he would spoil them if he did. He couldn't even say a damn thing about how it all made him want to feel strong and good, and made him want to do things and be big and brave for her.

His tongue stuck in his mouth.

They sat swinging their legs.

And Time passed through their afternoon like a gentle, tender wind, and like death that was silent and cruel. They knew they ought to go, and they sat. Accumulating shadows raked the scene which commenced to blur beneath them. They sat, and about them their beautiful afternoon evaporated, split up and died like the sun that was dying a red death in the calm sky. Lucy said that it was getting late, and she had better be going. Studs told her to wait just a little while longer. She insisted that she had to go. They sat, and Lucy puckered her lips. Studs kissed her. She stroked his hair, and it was even nicer than the wind, and she said that she liked him bushels and bushels. She said that she had to go, and she sat swinging her legs so that he could notice them; and they had a nice shape, too. She pointed to another baby. Studs thought of how babies were born, and he blushed. She asked him what he was doing, and offered a penny for his thoughts. He said he wasn't doing nothing, only looking, not thinking. He again thought of feeling her up, and again it made him feel like he was a dirty bastard.

They sat, and more precious minutes were squeezed, drained dry. When they finally climbed down, the sun was dead in the sky. They hurried home, half-running, not speaking. Leaving the park at Fifty-seventh, they saw Sunny Green and Shorty Leach playing tennis, lamming the ball at each other in the half-darkness, playing and volleying better than most men could. Lucy asked him if he could play tennis better than the two kids, and he said yes. He was sorry he told her such a lie, almost before the words were out of his mouth, just like he felt pretty lousy because he had exaggerated the story about how he and the guys had gone riding in Red O'Connell's car, shooting beebes. He promised to teach her how to play tennis. They parted in front of her house at a quarter to eight. She stood a moment on the porch, smiling at him through the summer dusk; and the spray from the sprinkler on her lawn tapped his cheeks; the boy, Studs, saw and felt something beautiful and vague, something like a prayer sprung into fresh. She threw him a kiss and fled inside. He walked home, pretending that he was carrying her blown kiss in his handkerchief. As soon as he arrived home, he rushed to his bedroom and kissed his handkerchief. He brought out his tennis racket and gestured before the mirror like a star tennis player, and resolved to practice his game, and some day for Lucy he might make himself as good as McLaughlin. He was proud of his form, too. Then he shadow-boxed, and imagined that he was beating up some hard guy to protect Lucy's character. Soon he was beating up a whole gang of them. He imagined her rewarding his heroism with a kiss, and folding his arms around the bed-pillow, tenderly, he kissed it. He sat on his bed, and contemplated the fact of Lucy. He told himself that he was one hell of a goddamn goof; he sat on the bed, thinking of her and becoming more and more of a hell of a goddamn goof.