Mrs. Reilly spread the box out on the bar. Even the man with the racing form agreed to take a macaroon.

“Where you bought these nice wine cakes, lady?” Darlene asked Mrs. Reilly. “They’re nice and juicy.”

“Over by Holmes, sugar. They got a good selection. Plenty variety.”

“They are rather tasty,” Ignatius conceded, sending out his flabby pink tongue over his moustache to hunt for crumbs. “I think that I shall have a macaroon or two. I have always found coconut to be good roughage.”

He picked around in the box purposefully.

“Me, I always like some good cake after I finish eating,” Mrs. Reilly told the bartender, who turned his back on her.

“I bet you cook good, huh?” Darlene asked.

“Mother doesn’t cook,” Ignatius said dogmatically. “She burns.”

“I used to cook too when I was married,” Darlene told them. “I sort of used a lot of that canned stuff, though. I like that Spanish rice they got and that spaghetti with the tomato gravy.”

“Canned food is a perversion,” Ignatius said. “I suspect that it is ultimately very damaging to the soul.”

“Lord, my elbow’s starting up again,” Mrs. Reilly sighed.

“Please, I am speaking,” her son told her. “I never eat canned food. I did once, and I could feel my intestines starting to atrophy.”

“You got a good education,” Darlene said.

“Ignatius graduated from college. Then he stuck around there for four more years to get him a master’s degree. Ignatius graduated smart.”

“‘Graduated smart,’” Ignatius repeated with some pique. “Please define your terms. Exactly what do you mean by ‘graduated smart.’”

“Don’t talk to your momma like that,” Darlene said.

“Oh, he treats me bad sometimes,” Mrs. Reilly said loudly and began to cry. “You just don’t know. When I think of all I done for that boy…”

“Mother, what are you saying?”

“You don’t appreciate me.”