A Confederacy of Dunces (27 page)

Ignatius is six miles away uptown. Look, we ain't even give Mr. Robichaux a drink. Fix him a drink, kid, while I go get Angelo." Mrs. Reilly studied her drink furiously in the hope of turning up a roach or at least a fly. "Gimme that coat, Mr.

Robichaux. Whatcha friends call you?"

"Claude."

"Claude, I'm Santa. And that there's Irene. Irene, say 'hello.'"

"Hello," Mrs. Reilly said automatically.

"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 intb 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 mint 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'H 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."

"That's right," Santa added. "Listen at what Irene's telling you, Claude. And watch out you don't step on my poor little niece's phonograph."

"If Ignatius woulda been nice to Angelo, none of this woulda happened," Mrs. Reilly explained to her audience. "Just look at the cold poor Angelo's got. He's got him a hard road, Claude."

"You tell him, girl," Santa said. "Angelo got that cold on account of he took you in, Claude." Santa waved a stubby finger at Mr. Robichaux a little accusingly. "Now he's stuck in a toilet. Next thing they gonna kick him off the force."

Patrolman Mancuso coughed sadly.

"Maybe I got a little excited," Mr. Robichaux conceded.

"I shouldn't of toog you id," Angelo breathed. "I got nerbous."

"It was all my fault," Mrs. Reilly said, "for trying to protect that Ignatius. I should of let you lock him away, Angelo." Mrs.

Reilly turned her white, powdery face to Mr. Robichaux. "Mr.

Robichaux, you don't know Ignatius. He makes trouble everyplace he goes."

"Somebody oughta punch that Ignatius in the nose," Santa said eagerly.

"Somebody oughta punch him in the mouth," Mrs. Reilly added.

"Somebody oughta beat up on that Ignatius," Santa said. "Now come on. Everybody make friends."

"Okay," Mr. Robichaux said. He took Angelo's blue-white hand and shook it limply.

"Ain't that nice," Mrs. Reilly said. "Come sit on the sofa, Claude, and Santa can play her precious little niece's high-fly."

While Santa put a Fats Domino record on the phonograph, Angelo, sniffling and looking a little confused, sat down on the kitchen chair across from Mrs. Reilly and Mr. Robichaux.

"Now ain't this nice," Mrs. Reilly screamed brightly over the deafening piano and bass. "Santa, honey, you wanna turn that down a little?"

The thumping rhythm decreased slightly in volume.

"Okay," Santa shouted at her guests. "Now everybody make friends while I go get us some plates for my good potatis salad. Hey, come on, Irene and Claude. Let's see you kids shake a leg."

The two little coal-black eyes scowled down at her from the mantelpiece as she stomped gaily out of the room. The three guests, drowned in the pounding beat of the phonograph, silently studied the rose-colored walls and the floral patterns on the linoleum. Then, suddenly, Mrs. Reilly screamed to the two gentlemen, "You know what? Ignatius was running the water in the tub when I left, and I bet he forgot to turn it off."

When no one answered, she added, "Mothers got a hard road."

Nine

"We got a complaint on you from the Board of Health, Reilly."

"Oh, is that all? From the expression on your face, I thought that you were having some sort of epileptic seizure," Ignatius said to Mr. Clyde through his mouthful of hot dog and bun, bumping his wagon into the garage. "I am afraid to guess what the complaint could be or how it could have originated. I assure you that I have been the very soul of cleanliness. My intimate habits are above reproach. Carrying no social diseases, I don't see what I could possibly transmit to your hot dogs that they do not already have. Look at these fingernails."

"Don't gimme none of your bullshit, you fat bum." Mr. Clyde ignored the paws that Ignatius had extended for inspection.

"You only been on the job a few days. I got guys working for me for years never been in trouble with the Board."

"No doubt they're more foxy than I."

"They got this man was checking on you."

"Oh," Ignatius said calmly and paused to chew on the tip of the hot dog that was sticking from his mouth like a cigar butt.

"So that's who that obvious appendage of officialdom was. He looked like an arm of the bureaucracy. You can always tell employees of the government by the total vacancy which occupies the space where most other people have faces."

"Shut up, you big slob. Did you pay for that weenie you eating?"

"Well, indirectly. You may subtract it from my miserable wage." Ignatius watched as Mr. Clyde jotted some numbers on a pad. "Tell me, what archaic sanitary taboo have I violated? I suspect that it's some falsification on the part of the inspector."

"The Board says they seen the vendor with Number Seven . . .

that's you . . ."

"So it is. Thrice-blessed Seven! I'm guilty on that count.

They've already pinned something on me. I imagined that Seven would ironically be an unlucky cart. I want another cart as soon as possible. Apparently I am pushing a jinx about the streets. I am certain that I can do better with some other wagon. A new cart, a new start."

"Will you listen to me?"

"Well, if I really must. I should perhaps warn you that I am about to faint from anxiety and general depression, though.

The film I saw last night was especially grueling, a teen-age beach musical. I almost collapsed during the singing sequence on surfboard. In addition, I suffered through two nightmares last night, one involving a Scenicruiser bus. The other involved a girl of my acquaintance. It was rather brutal and obscene. If I described it to you, you would no doubt become frightened."

"They seen you picking a cat out the gutter on St. Joseph Street."

"Is that the best that they can do? What an absurd lie," Ignatius said and with a flip of his tongue pulled in the last visible portion of the hot dog.

"What was you doing on St. Joseph Street? That's all warehouses and wharfs out there. They's no people on St.

Joseph. That's not even on our routes."

"Well, I didn't know that. I had only feebly shambled out there to rest a while. Occasionally a pedestrian happened along.

Unfortunately for us, they did not seem to be in hot dog moods."

"So you was there? No wonder you not selling nothing. And I guess you was playing with that goddam cat."

"Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember a domesticated animal or two in the vicinity."

"So you was playing with the cat."

"No, I was not 'playing' with the cat. I only picked it up to fondle it a bit. It was a rather appealing calico. I offered it a hot dog. However, the cat refused to eat it. It was an animal with some taste and decency."