Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [83]
“Ugh.”
Mrs. Levy was a woman of interests and ideals. Over the years she had given herself freely to bridge, African violets, Susan and Sandra, golf, Miami, Fannie Hurst and Hemingway, correspondence courses, hairdressers, the sun, gourmet foods, ballroom dancing, and, in recent years, Miss Trixie. She had always had to settle for Miss Trixie at a distance, an unsatisfactory arrangement for carrying out the program outlined in the psychology correspondence course, the final examination of which she had failed resoundingly. The correspondence school had even refused to give her an F. But now that Mrs. Levy had played her card correctly in the game dealing with the firing of the young idealist, she had Miss Trixie in the wrinkled flesh, visor, sneakers, and all. Mr. Gonzalez had gladly given the assistant accountant an indefinite vacation.
“Miss Trixie,” Mrs. Levy said sweetly. “Wake up.”
Miss Trixie opened her eyes and wheezed, “Am I retired?”
“No, darling.”
“What?” Miss Trixie snarled. “I thought I was retired!”
“Miss Trixie, you think that you’re old and tired. This is very bad.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Oh. I am. I am very tired.”
“Don’t you see?” Mrs. Levy asked. “It’s all in your mind. You have this age psychosis. You’re still a very attractive woman. You must say to yourself, ‘I am still attractive. I am a very attractive woman.’”
Miss Trixie exhaled a grunting snore into Mrs. Levy’s lacquered hair.
“Will you please let her alone, Dr. Freud?” Mr. Levy said angrily, looking up from a Sports Illustrated. “I almost wish Susan and Sandra were home so you could play with them. Whatever happened to your canasta circle?”
“Don’t talk to me, you failure. How can I play canasta when there’s a psycho in distress?”
“Psycho? The woman’s senile. We had to stop at about thirty gas stations on the way over here. Finally I got tired of getting out of the car and showing her which was the Men’s and which was the Women’s so I let her pick them herself. I worked out a system. The law of averages. I laid money on her and she came out about fifty-fifty.”
“Don’t tell me any more,” Mrs. Levy cautioned. “Not another word. It’s too typical. Permitting this anal compulsive to flounder like that.”
“Isn’t Lawrence Welk on?” Miss Trixie asked suddenly.
“No, dear. Relax.”
“It is Saturday.”
“He’ll be on. Don’t worry. Now tell me, what do you dream about?”
“I can’t remember at the moment.”
“Try,” Mrs. Levy said, making some sort of note on her date book with a rhinestoned automatic pencil. “You must try, Miss Trixie. Darling, your mind is warped. You’re like a cripple.”
“I may be old, but I’m not crippled,” Miss Trixie said wildly.
“Look, you’re exciting her, Florence Nightingale,” Mr. Levy said. “With all you know about psychoanalysis, you’re going to ruin whatever’s left in that head of hers. All she wants is to retire and sleep.”
“You’ve already wrecked your life. Don’t do the same to hers. This case can’t be retired. She must be made to feel wanted and needed and loved…”
“Turn on your goddam exercising board and let her take a nap!”
“I thought we agreed to let the board out of this.”
“Let her alone. Let her alone. Go ride your exercycle.”
“Quiet, please!” Miss Trixie croaked and rubbed her eyes…
“We must talk pleasantly in front of her,” Mrs. Levy whispered. “Loud voices, arguing, will only make her more insecure.”
“I’ll buy that. Keep quiet. And get that senile bag out of my rumpus room.”
“That’s right. Think about yourself as usual. If your father could only see you today.” Mrs. Levy’s aqua lids rose in horror. “A motheaten playboy looking for kicks.”
“Kicks?”
“Now you people shut up,” Miss Trixie warned. “I must say it was a dark day when I was brought out here. It was much nicer in there with Gomez. Nice and quiet. If this is some sort of an April Fool, I don’t think it’s funny.” She looked at Mr. Levy through rheumy eyes. “You’re the bird that fired my friend Gloria. Poor Gloria. The kindest person ever worked in that office.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Levy