Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [118]
Everyone looked at the television set next to the refrigerator, and Santa said, “Ain’t that nice, though? It’s a little Our Lady of the Television. It’s got a suction cup base so I don’t knock it over when I’m banging around in the kitchen. I bought it by Lenny’s.”
“Lenny’s got everything,” Mrs. Reilly said. “It looks like it’s made outta nice plastic, too, don’t break.”
“Well, how you kids liked that dinner?”
“It was delicious,” Mr. Robichaux said.
“It was wonderful,” Mrs. Reilly agreed. “I ain’t had me a good meal in a long time.”
“Aarff,” Santa belched. “I think I put too much garlic in them stuffed eggplants, but I got a heavy hand with garlic. Even my granchirren tell me, they say, ‘Hey, maw-maw, you sure got a heavy hand with garlic.’”
“Ain’t that sweet,” Mrs. Reilly said of the gourmet grandchildren.
“I thought the eggplants was fine,” Mr. Robichaux said.
“I’m only happy when I’m scrubbing my floors and cooking my food,” Santa told her guests. “I love to fix a big pot of meatballs or jumbalaya with shrimps.”
“I like to cook,” Mr. Robichaux said. “It helps out my daughter sometimes.”
“I bet it does,” Santa said. “A man who can cook is a big help around the house, believe me.” She kicked Mrs. Reilly under the table. “A woman’s got a man that likes to cook is a lucky girl.”
“You like to cook, Irene?” Mr. Robichaux asked.
“You talking to me, Claude?” Mrs. Reilly had been wondering what Ignatius looked like in an earring.
“Come back out the clouds, girl,” Santa ordered. “Claude here was axing you if you like to cook.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Reilly lied. “I like to cook okay. But sometimes it gets so hot in that kitchen, especially in the summer. You don’t get no breeze out that alley. Ignatius likes to eat junk, anyways. You give Ignatius a few bottles of Dr. Nut and plenty bakery cakes, and he’s satisfied.”
“You oughta get you a letrit range,” Mr. Robichaux said. “I bought my daughter one. It don’t get hot like a gas stove.”
“Where you getting all this money from, Claude?” Santa asked interestedly.
“I got me a nice pension from the railroad. I was with them for forty-five years, you know. They gimme a beautiful gold pin when I retired.”
“Ain’t that nice,” Mrs. Reilly said. “You made good, huh, Claude?”
“Then,” Mr. Robichaux said, “I got me a few little rental properties around my house. I was always putting a little of my salary aside to invest in properties. Property’s a good investment.”
“It sure is,” Santa said, rolling her eyes wildly at Mrs. Reilly. “Now you well fixed, huh?”
“I’m pretty comfortable. But you know sometimes I get tired of living with my daughter and her husband. I mean, they’re young. They got they own family. They are very nice to me, but I’d rather have my own home. You know what I mean?”
“If I was you,” Mrs. Reilly said, “I’d stay where I was. If your little daughter don’t mind having you around, you got you a nice setup. I wisht I had me a nice child. Be grateful for what you got, Claude.”
Santa ground the heel of her shoe into Mrs. Reilly’s ankle.
“Ouch!” Mrs. Reilly cried.
“Lord, I’m sorry, babe. Me and my big feet. Big feet’s always been my problem. They can hardly fit me down by the shoe store. That clerk sees me coming, and he says, ‘Lord, here comes Miss Battaglia again. What I’m gonna do?’”
“Your feet ain’t so big,” Mrs. Reilly observed, looking under the kitchen table.
“I just got them squshed up in this little pair of shoes. You oughta see them things when I’m barefoot, girl.”
“I got bum feet,” Mrs. Reilly told the other two. Santa made a sign for Mrs. Reilly not to discuss her deficiencies, but Mrs. Reilly was not to be silenced. “Some days I can’t hardly walk. I think they went bad when Ignatius was little and I useta have to carry him around. Lord but he was slow walking. Always falling down. He was sure heavy, too. Maybe that’s how I got my arthuritis.”
“Listen, you two,” Santa said quickly so that Mrs. Reilly would not describe some new, horrible deficiency. “Why don’t we go see that cute little Debbie Reynolds?”
“That would be