Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [175]
“Just wait till they hear all that originality pouring out of your head.”
“Ho hum,” Ignatius yawned. “Perhaps my mother has done me a great favor by planning to remarry. Those Oedipal bonds were beginning to overwhelm me.” He threw his yo-yo into the bag. “Apparently you had safe passage through the South.”
“I didn’t have a moment to really stop along the way. Almost thirty-six hours of drive, drive, drive.” Myrna was making piles of the Big Chief tablets. “I did stop at a Negro diner last night, but they wouldn’t serve me. I think the guitar threw them off.”
“That must have been it. They took you for some red-neck hillbilly singer. I’ve had some experience with those people. They’re rather limited.”
“I can’t believe that I am actually taking you out of this dungeon, this hole.”
“It is unbelievable, isn’t it? To think that I fought your wisdom for years.”
“We are going to have the most fantastic time in New York. Honestly.”
“I can’t wait,” Ignatius said, packing his scarf and cutlass. “The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the thrill of opening night on Broadway with my favorite musicomedy stars. Gab sessions in the Village over espresso with challenging, contemporary minds.”
“You’re coming to grips with yourself at last. Really. I can hardly believe what I’ve heard in this shack tonight. We’ll work on your problems. You’re going into a whole new and vital phase. Your inactivity is over. I can tell. I can hear it. Just think of the great thought that is going to come streaming out of that head when we’ve finally cleared away all the cobwebs and taboos and crippling attachments.”
“Goodness knows what will happen,” Ignatius said disinterestedly. “We must leave. Now. I should warn you that my mother may return momentarily. If I see her again, I’ll regress horribly. We must dash.”
“Ignatius, you’re jumping all over the place. Relax. The worst is over.”
“No, it isn’t,” Ignatius said quickly. “My mother may return with her mob. You should see them. White supremacists, Protestants, or worse. Let me get my lute and trumpet. Are the tablets gathered together?”
“This stuff in here is fascinating,” Myrna said, indicating the tablet through which she was flipping. “Gems of nihilism.”
“That is merely a fragment of the whole.”
“Aren’t you even going to leave your mother some very bitter note, some articulate protest or something?”
“It would hardly be worthwhile. She’d be weeks in comprehending it.” Ignatius cradled the lute and trumpet in one arm and the overnight bag in the other. “Please don’t drop that looseleaf folder. It contains the Journal, a sociological fantasy on which I’ve been working. It is my most commercial effort. Wonderful film possibilities at the hands of a Walt Disney or a George Pal.”
“Ignatius.” Myrna stopped in the doorway, her arms laden with tablets, and moved her colorless lips for a moment before she spoke, as if she were formulating an address. Her tired, highway-drugged eyes searched Ignatius’s face through the sparkling lenses. “This is a very meaningful moment. I feel as if I’m saving someone.”
“You are, you are. Now we must flee. Please. We’ll, chat later.” Ignatius pushed past her and lumbered down to the car, opening the rear door of the little Renault and climbing in among the placards and piles of pamphlets that covered the seat. The car smelled like a newsstand. “Hurry up! We don’t have time to stage a tableau-vivant here before the house.”
“I mean, are you really going to sit back there?” Myrna asked as she dropped her load of tablets through the rear door.
“Of course I am,” Ignatius bellowed. “I am certainly not going to sit up in that deathtrap of a front seat for highway travel. Now get in this go-cart and get us out of here.”
“Hold on. I left a lot of tablets behind,” Myrna said and ran into the house, her guitar thumping against her side. She came down the steps with another load and stopped on the brick sidewalk, turning to look at the house. Ignatius could tell that she was attempting to record the scene: Eliza crossing