Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [171]
“Big is right. It’ll be like capturing a wild elephant. Them people better have them a great big net,” Santa said eagerly. “Irene, this is the best decision you ever made. I tell you what. I’ll call up the Charity right now. You come over here. I’ll get Claude to come over, too. He’ll sure be glad to hear this. Whoo! You’ll be sending out wedding invitations in about a week. You gonna have you some little properties before the year’s out, sweetheart. You gonna have you a railroad pension.”
It all sounded good to Mrs. Reilly, but she asked a little hesitantly, “What about them communiss?”
“Don’t worry about them, darling. We’ll get rid of them communiss. Claude’s gonna be too busy fixing up that house of yours. He’s gonna have his hands full turning Ignatius’s room into a den.”
Santa broke into some baritone peals of laughter.
“Miss Annie’s gonna turn green when she sees this place fixed up.”
“Then tell that woman, say, ‘You go out and shake yourself a little. You’ll get your house fixed up, too.’” Santa guffawed. “Now get off the line, babe, and get over here. I’m calling the Charity right now. Get out that house fast!”
Santa slammed the telephone down in Mrs. Reilly’s ear.
Mrs. Reilly looked out the front shutters. It was very dark now, which was good. The neighbors would not see too much if they took Ignatius away during the night. She ran into the bathroom and powdered her face and the front of her dress, drew a surrealistic version of a mouth beneath her nose, and dashed into her bedroom to find a coat. When she got to the front door, she stopped. She couldn’t say goodbye to Ignatius like this. He was her child.
She went up to his bedroom door and listened to the wildly twanging bedsprings as they reached a crescendo, as they built toward a finale worthy of Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. She knocked, but there was no answer.
“Ignatius,” she called sadly.
“What do you want?” a breathless voice asked at last.
“I’m going out, Ignatius. I wanted to say goodbye.”
Ignatius did not answer.
“Ignatius, open up,” Mrs. Reilly pleaded. “Come kiss me goodbye, honey.”
“I don’t feel at all well. I can hardly move.”
“Come on, son.”
The door opened slowly. Ignatius stuck his fat gray face into the hall. His mother’s eyes watered when she saw the bandage.
“Now kiss me, honey. I’m sorry it all had to end like this.”
“What do all of these lachrymose clichés mean?” Ignatius asked suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly pleasant? Don’t you have some old man to meet somewhere?”
“You was right, Ignatius. You can’t go to work. I shoulda known that. I shoulda tried to get that debt paid off some other way.” A tear slid from Mrs. Reilly’s eyes and washed a little trail of clean skin through the powder. “If that Mr. Levy calls, don’t answer the phone. I’m gonna take care of you.”
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius bellowed. “Now I’m really in trouble. Goodness knows what you’re planning. Where are you going?”
“Stay inside and don’t answer the phone.”
“Why? What is this?” The bloodshot eyes flashed with fright. “Who was that you were whispering to on the phone?”
“You won’t have to worry about Mr. Levy, son. I’m gonna fix you up. Just remember your poor momma’s got your welfare at heart.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Don’t never be mad at me, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said and, jumping up in her bowling shoes that she had not taken off since Angelo had telephoned her the night before, she embraced Ignatius and kissed him on his moustache.
She released him and ran to the front door, where she turned and called, “I’m sorry I run into that building, Ignatius. I love you.”
The shutters slammed and she was gone.
“Come back,” Ignatius thundered. He ripped at the shutters, but the old Plymouth, one of its front tires fenderless and exposed as if it were a stock car, was rumbling to life. “Come back, please. Mother!”
“Aw, shut up,” Miss Annie hollered from somewhere in the darkness.
His mother had something up her sleeve, some clumsy plan, some scheme that would ruin him forever.