John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

“You two make friends while I’m gone,” Santa said and disappeared into the other room.

“How’s that fine big boy of yours?” Mr. Robichaux asked to end the silence that had fallen.

“Who?”

“Your son.”

“Oh, him. He’s okay.” Mrs. Reilly’s mind flew back to Constantinople Street where she had left Ignatius writing in his room and mumbling something about Myrna Minkoff. Through the door, Mrs. Reilly had heard Ignatius saying to himself, “She must be lashed until she drops.”

There was a long silence broken only by the violent sipping noises that Mrs. Reilly made on the rim of her glass.

“You want some nice potato chips?” Mrs. Reilly finally asked, for she found that the silence made her even more ill at ease.

“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 what he thinks of democracy some time.”

“I sure will,” Mrs. Reilly said happily. Ignatius was just the type to be a communist. He even looked like one a little. “Maybe I can scare him.”

“That boy shouldn’t be giving you trouble. You got a very fine character. I admire that in a lady. When I reconnized you down by the bowling alley with Miss Battaglia, I says to myself, ‘I hope I can meet her sometime.’”

“You said that?”

“I admired your integrity, standing up for that boy in front that dirty cop, especially if you got troubles with him at home. That takes courage.”

“I wisht I woulda let Angelo take him away. None of this other stuff woulda happened. Ignatius woulda been locked up safe in jail.”

“Who’s Angelo?”

“There! I hadda go open my big mouth. What I said, Claude?”

“Something about Angelo.”

“Lord, lemme go see if Santa’s okay. Poor thing. Maybe she burnt herself on the stove. Santa’s all the time getting herself burnt. She don’t take care around the fire, you know.”

“She woulda screamed if she was burnt.”

“Not Santa. She’s got plenty courage, that girl. You won’t hear a word outta her. It’s that strong Italian blood.”

“Christ Awmight!” Mr. Robichaux screamed, jumping to his feet. “That’s him!”

“What?” Mrs. Reilly asked in panic, and, looking around, saw Santa and Angelo standing in the doorway of the room. “You see, Santa. I knew this was gonna happen. Lord, my nerves is shot already. I shoulda stayed home.”

“If you wasn’t a dirty cop, I’d punch you right in the nose,” Mr. Robichaux was screaming at Angelo.

“Aw, take it easy, Claude,” Santa said calmly. “Angelo here didn’t mean no harm.”

“He ruint me, that communiss.”

Patrolman Mancuso coughed violently and looked depressed. He wondered what terrible thing would happen to him next.

“Oh, Lord, I better go,” Mrs. Reilly said despairingly. “The last thing I need is a fight. We’ll be all over the newspaper. Ignatius’ll really be happy then.”

“How come you brought me here?” Mr. Robichaux asked Santa wildly. “What is this?”

“Santa, honey, you wanna call me a nice taxi?”

“Aw, shut up, Irene,” Santa answered. “Now listen, Claude, Angelo says he’s sorry he took you in.”

“That don’t mean nothing. It’s too late to feel sorry. I was disgraced in front my granchirren.”

“Don’t be mad at Angelo,” Mrs. Reilly pleaded. “It was all Ignatius’s fault. He’s my own flesh and blood, but he sure does look funny when he goes out. Angelo shoulda locked him up.”