Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [90]
“Yeah, I think I would.”
“They right in the bag next to you.” Mrs. Reilly watched Mr. Robichaux open the cellophane package. His face and his gray gabardine suit both seemed to be neat and freshly pressed. “Maybe Santa needs some help. Maybe she went and fell down.”
“She just left the room a minute ago. She’ll be back.”
“These floors are dangerous,” Mrs. Reilly observed, studying the shiny linoleum intently. “You could slip down and crack your skull wide open.”
“You gotta be careful in life.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Me, I’m always careful.”
“Me, too. It pays to be careful.”
“It sure does. That’s what Ignatius said just the other day,” Mrs. Reilly lied. “He says to me, ‘Momma, it sure pays to be careful, don’t it?’ And I says to him, ‘That’s right, son. Take care.’”
“That’s good advice.”
“I’m all the time giving Ignatius advice. You know? I’m always trying to help him out.”
“I bet you a good momma. I seen you and that boy downtown plenty times, and I always thought what a fine-looking big boy he was. He kinda stands out, you know?”
“I try with him. I say, ‘Be careful, son. Watch you don’t slip down and crack your skull open or fracture a arm.’” Mrs. Reilly sucked at the ice cubes a bit. “Ignatius learned safety at my knee. He’s always been grateful for that.”
“That’s good training, believe me.”
“I tell Ignatius, I say, ‘Take care when you cross the street, son.’”
“You gotta watch out in traffic, Irene. You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, huh?”
“Feel free.”
“Irene’s a pretty name.”
“You think so? Ignatius says he don’t like it.” Mrs. Reilly crossed herself and finished her drink. “I sure got a hard road, Mr. Robichaux. I don’t mind telling you.”
“Call me Claude.”
“As God is my witness, I got a awful cross to bear. You wanna nice drink?”
“Yeah, thanks. Not too strong, though. I’m not a drinking man.”
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Reilly sniffed, filling two glasses to the rim with whiskey. “When I think of all I take. Sometimes I could really have me a good cry.”
With that, Mrs. Reilly burst into loud, wild tears.
“Aw, don’t cry,” Mr. Robichaux pleaded, completely confused by the tragic turn the evening was apparently taking.
“I gotta do something. I gotta call the authorities to come take that boy away,” Mrs. Reilly sobbed. She paused to take a mouthful of Early Times. “Maybe they put him in a detention home or something.”
“Ain’t he thirty years old?”
“My heart’s broke.”
“Ain’t he writing something?”
“Some foolishness nobody never gonna feel like reading. Now him and that Myrna writing insults to each other. Ignatius is telling me he’s gonna get that girl good. Ain’t that awful? Poor Myrna.”
Mr. Robichaux, unable to think of anything to say, asked, “Why don’t you get a priest to talk to your boy?”
“A priest?” Mrs. Reilly wept. “Ignatius won’t listen to no priest. He calls the priest in our parish a heretic. They had a big fight when Ignatius’s dog died.” Mr. Robichaux could find no comment for that enigmatic statement. “It was awful. I thought I’d get throwed out the Church. I don’t know where that boy gets his ideas from. It’s a good thing his poor poppa’s dead. He’d be breaking his poor father’s heart with that weenie wagon.”
“What weenie wagon?”
“He’s out on the streets pushing a weenie wagon all over.”
“Oh. He’s got him a job now.”
“A job?” Mrs. Reilly sobbed. “It’s all over my neighborhood. The lady next door’s been asking me a million questions. All Constantinople Street’s talking about him. When I think of all the money I spent on that boy’s education. You know, I thought chirren was supposed to comfort you in your old age. What kinda comfort Ignatius is giving me?”
“Maybe your boy went to school too long,” Mr. Robichaux advised. “They got plenty communiss in them colleges.”
“Yeah?” Mrs. Reilly asked with interest, dabbing at her eyes with the skirt of her green taffeta cocktail dress, unaware that she was showing Mr. Robichaux the wide runs in her stockings at the knee. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Ignatius. It’s just like a communiss to treat his momma bad.”
“Ax that boy