“He ain’t angry, but he don’t like you being alone in that house. He ax me if maybe him and me shouldn’t come over there and stay with you.”

“Don’t do that, babe,” Mrs. Reilly said quickly.

“What kinda trouble Ignatius is in now?”

“I’ll tell you later. Right now I can only say I been thinking about this Charity business all day, and I finally made up my mind. Now is the time. He’s my own child, but we gotta get him treated for his own sake.” Mrs. Reilly tried to think of the phrase that was always used in courtroom dramas on TV. “We gotta get him declared temporary insane.”

“Temporary?” Santa scoffed.

“We gotta help out Ignatius before they come drag him off.”

“Who’s gonna drag him off?”

“It seem like he pulled a boo-boo when he was working at Levy Pants.”

“Oh, Lord! Not something else. Irene! Hang up and call them people at the Charity right now, honey.”

“No, listen. I don’t wanna be here when they come. I mean, Ignatius is big. He might make trouble. I couldn’t stand that. My nerves is bad enough now.”

“Big is right. It’ll be like capturing a wild elephant. Them people better have them a great big net,” Santa said eagerly. “Irene, this is the best decision you ever made. I tell you what. I’ll call up the Charity right now. You come over here. I’ll get Claude to come over, too. He’ll sure be glad to hear this. Whoo! You’ll be sending out wedding invitations in about a week. You gonna have you some little properties before the year’s out, sweetheart. You gonna have you a railroad pension.”

It all sounded good to Mrs. Reilly, but she asked a little hesitantly, “What about them communiss?”

“Don’t worry about them, darling. We’ll get rid of them communiss. Claude’s gonna be too busy fixing up that house of yours. He’s gonna have his hands full turning Ignatius’s room into a den.”

Santa broke into some baritone peals of laughter.

“Miss Annie’s gonna turn green when she sees this place fixed up.”

“Then tell that woman, say, ‘You go out and shake yourself a little. You’ll get your house fixed up, too.’” Santa guffawed. “Now get off the line, babe, and get over here. I’m calling the Charity right now. Get out that house fast!”

Santa slammed the telephone down in Mrs. Reilly’s ear.

Mrs. Reilly looked out the front shutters. It was very dark now, which was good. The neighbors would not see too much if they took Ignatius away during the night. She ran into the bathroom and powdered her face and the front of her dress, drew a surrealistic version of a mouth beneath her nose, and dashed into her bedroom to find a coat. When she got to the front door, she stopped. She couldn’t say goodbye to Ignatius like this. He was her child.

She went up to his bedroom door and listened to the wildly twanging bedsprings as they reached a crescendo, as they built toward a finale worthy of Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. She knocked, but there was no answer.

“Ignatius,” she called sadly.

“What do you want?” a breathless voice asked at last.

“I’m going out, Ignatius. I wanted to say goodbye.”

Ignatius did not answer.

“Ignatius, open up,” Mrs. Reilly pleaded. “Come kiss me goodbye, honey.”

“I don’t feel at all well. I can hardly move.”

“Come on, son.”

The door opened slowly. Ignatius stuck his fat gray face into the hall. His mother’s eyes watered when she saw the bandage.

“Now kiss me, honey. I’m sorry it all had to end like this.”

“What do all of these lachrymose clichés mean?” Ignatius asked suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly pleasant? Don’t you have some old man to meet somewhere?”

“You was right, Ignatius. You can’t go to work. I shoulda known that. I shoulda tried to get that debt paid off some other way.” A tear slid from Mrs. Reilly’s eyes and washed a little trail of clean skin through the powder. “If that Mr. Levy calls, don’t answer the phone. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Oh, my God!” Ignatius bellowed. “Now I’m really in trouble. Goodness knows what you’re planning. Where are you going?”

“Stay inside and don’t answer the phone.”

“Why? What is this?” The bloodshot eyes flashed with fright. “Who was that you were whispering to on the phone?”

“You won’t have to worry about Mr. Levy, son. I’m gonna fix you up. Just remember your poor momma’s got your welfare at heart.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Don’t never be mad at me, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said and, jumping up in her bowling shoes that she had not taken off since Angelo had telephoned her the night before, she embraced Ignatius and kissed him on his moustache.

She released him and ran to the front door, where she turned and called, “I’m sorry I run into that building, Ignatius. I love you.”

The shutters slammed and she was gone.

“Come back,” Ignatius thundered. He ripped at the shutters, but the old Plymouth, one of its front tires fenderless and exposed as if it were a stock car, was rumbling to life. “Come back, please. Mother!”

“Aw, shut up,” Miss Annie hollered from somewhere in the darkness.

His mother had something up her sleeve, some clumsy plan, some scheme that would ruin him forever. Why had she insisted that he stay inside? She knew that he would not be going anywhere in his present condition. He found Santa Battaglia’s number and dialed it. He must speak with his mother.

“This is Ignatius Reilly,” he said when Santa had answered. “Is my mother coming down there tonight?”

“No, she ain’t,” Santa replied coldly. “I ain’t spoke with your momma all day.”

Ignatius hung up. Something was going on. He had heard his mother saying “Santa” over the telephone at least two or three times during the day. And that last telephone call, that whispered communication just before his mother had left. His mother only whispered to the Battaglia bawd and then it was only when they were exchanging secrets. At once Ignatius suspected the reason for his mother’s emotional farewell, for its finality. She had already told him that the Battaglia matchmaker had advised a vacation for him in the psychiatric ward at Charity. Everything made sense. In a psychiatric ward he would not be liable to prosecution by Abelman and Levy, or whoever it was who would push the case. Perhaps both of them would sue him, Abelman for character defamation and Levy for forgery. To his mother’s limited mind the psychiatric ward would seem an attractive alternative. It was just like her, with the very best of intentions, to have her child harnessed by a straitjacket and electrocuted by shock treatments. Of course, his mother might not be considering this at all. However, whenever dealing with her, it was always best to prepare for the worst. Wife of Bath Battaglia’s lie was itself not very reassuring.

In the United States you are innocent until they prove you guilty. Perhaps Miss Trixie had confessed. Why hadn’t Mr. Levy telephoned back? Ignatius would not be tossed into a mental clinic while, legally, he was still innocent of having written the letter. His mother, typically, had responded to Mr. Levy’s visit in the most irrational and emotional manner possible. “I’m gonna take care of you.” “I’m gonna fix you up.” Yes, she would fix him up all right. A hose would be turned on him. Some cretin psychoanalyst would attempt to comprehend the singularity of his worldview. In frustration, the psychoanalyst would have him crammed into a cell three feet square. No. That was out of the question. Jail was preferable. There they only limited you physically. In a mental ward they tampered with your soul and worldview and mind. He would never tolerate that. And his mother had been so apologetic about this mysterious protection she was going to give him. All signs pointed to Charity Hospital.

Oh, Fortuna, you wretch!

Now he was waddling around in the little house like a sitting duck. Whatever strong-arm men the hospital employed had their sights aimed directly at him. Ignatius Reilly, clay pigeon. His mother might only have gone to one of her bowling Bacchanalia. On the other hand, a barred truck might be speeding to Constantinople Street right now.