.

They were—as the students sometimes put it sarcastically— of the pay, pray, and obey generation. True, they didn’t have any college degrees on the wall, and the only books in the houses of the first-generation Irish immigrants were of the odd-lot variety to be found in the living room bookcase, but then they didn’t have to worry whether Bertrand Russell was right in calling the earth an orb spinning heedlessly through a mindless universe, or if the French Existentialists were right in demanding that man learn to live without God because there wasn’t anybody up there. Jill had to worry about that. That was the gift of education that the Irish worshipped.

      One thing was sure. If Bertrand Russell was right, then girls like Eva were right; there was no need to bother. Why scruple if the world were after all a jungle? But Jill hadn’t come to any such conclusion, and hoped she never would.

      Chapter 5

      Jim left the ballgame after several hours and headed home. He had to make another stop at the store for Florence. He got in about 7 in the evening and went up to do the bathroom. Florence was on her knees, scrubbing the tub. She had certainly heard him coming up the stairs, but she gave him no acknowledgment.

      “I told you I’d do it,” he said.

      “You don’t have to bother now.”

      “I said I’d do it and I’ll do it.”

      “When? Monday?”

      “I had to stop at the store for you.”

      “Oh I’m sure it took you all this time to stop at the store.”

      “I bought the poultry seasoning. It’s downstairs.”

      “How much was it?”

      “Twenty-nine cents.”

      She went to her bedroom, and came out and gave him a quarter and four pennies.

      “Thanks. I have at least twenty-nine cents for tonight now, anyway.” He gave her a pleasing little smile.

      She was stone-faced. “It’s not my worry if you have no money.” She went down the stairs.

      Florence had been scrubbing at the brown stain formed by the constant drip of water from the tap. He powdered on cleanser and scrubbed at the remaining brown section until his arm was sore. He still couldn’t get it as white as the section she had done. He rinsed with tap water, powdered on another layer of cleanser, and went back to scrubbing. How did she ever get it so white? She was as strong as a horse. Heaven help poor Ralph, he thought.

      Already tired, he sat back on the mat and lit a cigarette. A cockroach came out from behind the adjoining wall and Jim sent him spinning down the drain with water from the tap. He could of course stay at Eva’s for the evening and watch television, and then he wouldn’t need any money. But that was awkward. Her father never left the living room.

      Maybe Cricket. He went to the bedroom and pulled the bureau out from the wall that separated the Meagher house from the attached Connolly house. He got on his knees and put his mouth to the hole drilled in the baseboard. “Hey Cricket.”

      He got an answer right away. “What?”

      “What are you doing?”

      “I’m in the rack.”

      “You got any money?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Great.” Cricket, Nora’s older son, worked sometimes after school as a copy boy at The Mirror, where his father was a deskman. He’d probably gotten a paycheck. “How much?”

      “A nickel,” said Cricket.

      Jim was silent. Then he said softly, “You bastard.” He could hear Cricket giggling. “How about Harold? Does he have any money?”

      “Nah.”

      “Why don’t you come over?” Jim asked. The bathroom would go easier with someone to talk to.

      “Okay. In a minute.”

      Back in the bathroom, Jim spied the diary. Florence had left it out again, on the small table, with the clasp hanging loose. Putting the seat cover down over the toilet, he sat down and paged through it to see what was new with Florence’s private life. It was a disappointment: she hadn’t entered anything for two weeks. He skipped back to the entry in January where she had given him a slam. It always gave him an odd feeling to be reading about himself.

      Furious at J. at dinner. He can be so cruel.

      Wanted to know how old Ralph was. I told

      him, 33. He said parents will turn out to be

      nice to me because they probably want to get rid of him.

      He really hurt. A professional man shouldn’t marry

      before thirty.

      The best entry in the book was the one for the following Wednesday:

      Hi/ Dinner at Luchow’s with R. He was

      delighted when I told him Mr. Haskings

      was nice all day when I made believe I

      liked him. He said psychology teaches a

      lot. I guess so. I wish I went to college.

      Dinner terrific. Chateaubriand (sp?) Blue

      cheese salad. Wond. coffee. R. decides he

      will not go skiing now, wants to go out Sat.

      night. Told him I didn’t think so. On the

      Central he asked me for Sunday. I said I

      wasn’t sure. He sulked the whole ride.

      Very jealous. Said that four out of five

      times I turn him down, which isn’t true.

      We go out almost every weekend. He

      asked me if he should call anymore since

      it just made him frustrated and resentful to be

      refused. I told him he was acting like an ass.

      But we made it up at the door. Show Boy

      Friend. Very funny. Daddy mad when I got

      home. J. ate at Nora’s but Daddy said she

      fries everything. R. is certainly acting very

      Silly. Is ten years too much difference?

      Jim could picture the scene of Florence calling Ralph an ass, and he laughed out loud. There was another entry somewhere where Florence had written: “Ralph has beautiful hands.” He looked for that one, but he couldn’t find it.

      Jim heard Cricket downstairs. Florence was questioning him and he heard her say: “Jim has to do the bathroom, Edward.”

      Jim ran to the hallway and yelled down, “He’s not going to bother me.”

      “Well, make sure you do it right,” she shouted back.

      Cricket came up. He was a slight youth, a full head shorter than Jim, with a mischievous face. He had a receding chin, and his eyeglasses were thick as the bottoms of milk bottles. He had brought his trick smoking pipe with him. It had a stem two feet long, patched with adhesive tape where it had snapped in the middle. This was only one of his oddities. Back in his room he had a goat-skin wine bag, a leopard-skin vest, and a white woolen cap with an elongated top that hung over his shoulder and had a white pompom sewed to it.

      “Take a look at this,” said Jim, handing him the diary, open to the entry describing the fight with Ralph. Cricket read it and then hunched his shoulders and squinted his eyes and let go with his staccato giggly laugh.

      “Isn’t that something?” Jim asked, grinning broadly. “She calls the guy an ass. And he’s back for more.” He threw the book on the table.

      “What