Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [10]
“They are rather tasty,” Ignatius conceded, sending out his flabby pink tongue over his moustache to hunt for crumbs. “I think that I shall have a macaroon or two. I have always found coconut to be good roughage.”
He picked around in the box purposefully.
“Me, I always like some good cake after I finish eating,” Mrs. Reilly told the bartender, who turned his back on her.
“I bet you cook good, huh?” Darlene asked.
“Mother doesn’t cook,” Ignatius said dogmatically. “She burns.”
“I used to cook too when I was married,” Darlene told them. “I sort of used a lot of that canned stuff, though. I like that Spanish rice they got and that spaghetti with the tomato gravy.”
“Canned food is a perversion,” Ignatius said. “I suspect that it is ultimately very damaging to the soul.”
“Lord, my elbow’s starting up again,” Mrs. Reilly sighed.
“Please, I am speaking,” her son told her. “I never eat canned food. I did once, and I could feel my intestines starting to atrophy.”
“You got a good education,” Darlene said.
“Ignatius graduated from college. Then he stuck around there for four more years to get him a master’s degree. Ignatius graduated smart.”
“‘Graduated smart,’” Ignatius repeated with some pique. “Please define your terms. Exactly what do you mean by ‘graduated smart.’”
“Don’t talk to your momma like that,” Darlene said.
“Oh, he treats me bad sometimes,” Mrs. Reilly said loudly and began to cry. “You just don’t know. When I think of all I done for that boy…”
“Mother, what are you saying?”
“You don’t appreciate me.”
“Stop that right now. I’m afraid that you’ve had too much beer.”
“You treat me like garbage. I been good,” Mrs. Reilly sobbed. She turned to Darlene. “I spent all his poor Grammaw Reilly’s insurance money to keep him in college for eight years, and since then all he’s done is lay around the house watching television.”
“You oughta be ashamed,” Darlene said to Ignatius. “A big man like you. Look at your poor momma.”
Mrs. Reilly had collapsed, sobbing, on the bar, one hand clenched around her beer glass.
“This is ridiculous. Mother, stop that.”
“If I knew you was so crool, mister, I wouldna listened to your crazy story about that Greyhound bus.”
“Get up, Mother.”
“You look like a big crazyman anyway,” Darlene said. “I shoulda known. Just look how that poor woman’s crying.”
Darlene tried to push Ignatius from his stool but sent him crashing into his mother, who suddenly stopped crying and gasped, “My elbow!”
“What’s going on here?” a woman asked from the padded chartreuse leatherette door of the bar. She was a statuesque woman nearing middle age, her fine body covered with a black leather overcoat that glistened with mist. “I leave this place for a few hours to go shopping and look what happens. I gotta be here every minute, I guess, to watch out you people don’t ruin my investment.”
“Just two drunks,” the bartender said. “I’ve been giving them the cold shoulder since they come in, but they’ve been sticking like flies.”
“But you, Darlene,” the woman said. “You’re big friends with them, huh? Playing games on the stools with these two characters?”
“This guy’s been mistreating his momma,” Darlene explained.
“Mothers? We got mothers in here now? Business already stinks.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ignatius said.
The woman ignored him and looked at the broken and empty cake box on the bar, saying, “Somebody’s been having a picnic in here. Goddamit. I already told you people about ants and rats.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ignatius said again. “My mother is present.”
“It’s just my luck to have this crap broken all over here just when I’m looking for a janitor.” The woman looked at the bartender. “Get these two out.”
“Yes, Miss Lee.”
“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Reilly said. “We’re leaving.”
“We certainly are,” Ignatius added, lumbering toward the door, leaving his mother behind to climb off her stool. “Hurry along, Mother. This woman looks like a Nazi commandant. She may strike us.”
“Wait!” Miss Lee screamed, grabbing Ignatius’s sleeve. “How much these characters owe?”
“Eight dollars,