Maybe it would be all right if he looked decent, if he was bathed and shaved and properly dressed. He needed a bath anyway, and it wasn’t as though he’d be using soap just to pass some sort of test. It wouldn’t hurt him to put on his Sunday clothes. There wasn’t any law that said he had to wear them only on Sunday.
Maybe it would really be all right, and these uptown characters wouldn’t give him any trouble. Maybe they wouldn’t notice that he was different, that he didn’t belong.
But no. In no time at all they’d have him sized up, they’d see him for what he was. Perhaps they’d try to be polite and not say anything, but he’d know what they were thinking. It would show in their eyes, no matter how they tried to hide it.
The thing to do, he told himself, was take this goddamn camera and throw it down a sewer or someplace. Just get rid of it.
And there it was again, the stabbing thought that he didn’t have the guts to face the situation squarely. He was frightened, that was all.
He walked on down Vernon Street, wondering what to do with the camera.
Arriving at the Kerrigan house, he opened the front door and walked into the parlor. He glanced at the sofa, where Tom was snoring loudly, holding a half-empty beer bottle, the picture of utter contentment.
The only sound in the parlor was the noise coming from the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the loud voices of Lola and Bella. At first he paid no attention to what they were saying, and his thoughts played idly with the idea that he ought to go in there and get some supper. He wondered if there was anything warm on the stove.
He started across the parlor, headed toward the kitchen, and then he heard Bella yelling, “Just wait till I see that two-timing sneak. Wait till I get my hands on him.”
“You’ll leave him alone,” Lola shouted at her daughter. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t start anything.”