Maggie Cassidy by Jack Kerouac Page A

Moody Street Bridge right in the howl-shroud of the gale itself blowing over the city’s bridges, and on across the snowy boards we’d bowl home, the gang in front, Pa and I in back, jawing and jabbering.
    â€œGoin to track practice at four—”
    â€œI’ll be there for the opening scene Satty night—Say, how ‘bout goin down together?”
    â€œSure. We’ll ride down with Louis Morin and Emil Ladeau in the bus—”
    â€œAh Ti Jean, I’m glad ta see ya making good on the track team, it makes my old heart proud by golly. I got a job at Rolfe’s this afternoon—looks like I’ll be around awhile—Old Gloomy Puss—well I’ll have my upsets, but pay no attention to me. I’ll be ranting about the government, about the way America has changed since I was a boy. Dont pay it any attention, kiddo—but maybe when you grow older you’ll understand my feelings.”
    â€œYeah, Pa.”
    â€œWhattaya think of that—ha ha ha—”
    â€œSay Pa!”
    â€œWhat kiddo?” turning to me eagerly with laughter and shining eyes.
    â€œDid you know who finally beat that Whitney colt down in Florida.”
    â€œYeah, I know, I had one-fifty across the board on him in the club, the bum—Yeah, k—Ti J—Jack—” (stammering to find my name) “yeah kiddo,” seriously, far away, broodingly squeezing my arm, realizing I’m just a child. “Yeah me boy—yeah sonny—my kid—” and in his eyes a mysterious mist, dense with tears, springing from the secret earth of his being and always dark, unknown, come of itself, like there is no reason for a river.
    â€œIt’ll come, Jack—” and in his countenance you saw he meant just death—“What’ll be with it? Maybe you gotta know a lot of people in Heaven to make life succeed. It’ll come. You dont have to know a soul to know what I know—to expect what I’m expecting—to feel yourself alive and dying in your chest every minute of the livelong day—When you’re young you wanta cry, when you’re old you wanta die. But that’s too deep for you now, Ti mon Pousse ” (Little My Thumb).

19
    Wednesday night came slowly.
    â€œSit here, by me.”
    It’s Maggie, solemn, her legs crossed, hands folded on her lap, on the couch, in the parlor, fullblast overhead lights, her cousin is going to show us how his magic trick works. It’s some kid thing out of a kit book, I’m bored (like by television), but Maggie is dead serious and skeptical and watching every move Tommy makes because as she says, “He’s such a devil, you gotta watch him, he’ll play the meanest tricks and tease ya, he’s almost a sneak”—Tommy the handsome popular boy cousin that all the Cassidy girls love and look up to and roar and laugh in parlors and kitchens as he performs and does headstands of activity, a good kid, shining eyes, his hair falling in them, full of glee, the little kids alrady sent to bed are peeking from the top of the stairs where the wallpaper is lit a dim rose by the nightlamp—So I watch Maggie watch Tommy—out of the corner of my eye. Tonight she’s more beautiful than ever, she has a little white rose or flower of some kind in her hair, to the left, her hair comes down on both sides of her brow almost over the corners of her eyes, her lips pursed (chewing gum) to watch and doubt. She has a lace collar, very neat, she went to church that afternoon and to Mrs. O’Garra down Chelmsford Road to get that cakemix for the party. She has a crucifix on her dress breast; lace ends on her short sleeves; little bracelets on both wrists; hands crossed, sweet white ringers I eye with immortal longing to hold in mine and have to wait—fingers I know well, cold slightly, moving, nudging a little as she laughs but primly stay folded in her hands—her legs crossed