Murder in Mount Holly Page 5

  “Don’t ask me,” said Miss Ball. “It was always Lent in our house. Lent and hate.”

  “Maybe marriages can be based on hate instead of love,” Herbie said.

  “Ours was. The girls down at the D.A.R. said to stay away from Catholics if you want to stay tolerant. But I wouldn’t listen. Sure, he wasn’t all bad—he used to pick up stray cats and stuff. The girls said that’s a sign of loneliness. He was probably lonely.”

  “It was his way,” said Herbie. He had been waiting for a good chance to say it.

  “Maybe that’s it. He was good about cats. And I really couldn’t divorce him for taking the coffeemaker apart. You don’t walk into a court and say, I want a divorce—my husband takes the coffeepot apart before church every morning. It doesn’t sound right. It wouldn’t even sound right in a movie if Ava Gardner said it. Besides, who else is there? There aren’t that many people in the world that you can just start tossing them away left and right just because they have a certain way about them. That’s what love is—sticking with the guy even though he has creepy habits. It’s learning to love the creepy habits so you can sleep in the same bed without killing the sonofabitch.”

  “I thought I’d hate this job at Kant-Brake, but now I like it.”

  Miss Ball turned all her face on Herbie. “Of course you’ll like it. It’ll be fun. You’ll learn to get the hang of it. Sure, you hated it at first, but every dog has his day. That’s part of living.”

  “My mother needs the money. She’s getting along, getting old.”

  “I’m getting along myself,” said Miss Ball.

  “She’s all alone now,” said Herbie. “My father’s gone. It’s the least I can do.”

  “I could have been in the movies. Don’t think I didn’t have lots of chances. But I sacrificed and here I am.”

  “My mother just can’t stop eating because my father died. Life goes on. You’ve got to keep eating no matter what happens.”

  “My husband. He kept me going, I guess.”

  “If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here.” Herbie thought for a moment. “Who knows where I’d be? Maybe in the real army.”

  “He could laugh. You should have heard him laugh,” said Miss Ball. “Like a barrel of monkeys.”

  “My mother laughs all the time. She laughs at everything.”

  “He taught me how to laugh, the old fool.”

  “People don’t laugh enough these days. It’s good medicine,” said Herbie. “Isn’t it? I mean, if you don’t laugh you’ll go crazy.”

  “I still haven’t forgotten how.”

  “Neither have I. Neither has my mother.”

  “You’ve got to learn to laugh,” said Miss Ball. And to prove it she emitted a little bark, learned undoubtedly from the husband who rose so early in the morning. She laughed wildly, yelping, looking around the room, her eyes darting from object to object, her laughter growing with each object. It was not continuous, but a series of yelps, wet boffoes and barks. She showed no signs of tiring.

  Herbie joined her, slowly at first. Then it was a duet.

  7

  “You gotta know which side of the bed your brother’s on,” Mr. Gibbon shouted to Herbie over the roar of the machines. But Herbie did not hear. No one heard anyone else at Kant-Brake. That did not stop the employees from talking. It encouraged them. There were no disagreements, no arguments, no harsh words, and still everyone talked nearly all the time. None of that impatient waiting until the other person finished to add your two cents’ worth. And since most of the employees had been through many campaigns there were millions of little stories to tell. Happily, each man got a chance to tell them. So when Mr. Gibbon offered his homily to Herbie, Herbie answered by saying that his tooth hurt. And then Mr. Gibbon said that he liked spunky women and asked Herbie if his mother was spunky.

  At noon sharp the machines were shut off. The scream of voices persisted for a few moments after the machines were silenced, then, when everyone heard his own voice, the sounds quickly hushed, as if the human voice were something to be avoided.

  Mr. Gibbon came over to Herbie and pointed to a bench. They sat on the bench and opened their paper lunch-bags (there was a mess hall, but Mr. Gibbon had said that he could never stand mess halls, even though he was once a cook and could make enough cabbage for, let’s face it, an army). They took out their sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs and began whispering. Everyone else at Kant-Brake was whispering as well. They always whispered at lunch hour. Mr. Gibbon asked Herbie about his family. They continued their lunch, whispering between bites.

  Herbie said his mother was his family.

  “No kin?”

  “Nope.”

  “Friends of the family?”

  “Couple.”

  “No brothers?”

  “Uh-unh.”

  “Aunts?”

  “No kin. None.”

  “Girlfriends, though.”

  “Used to.”

  “’Smatter now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Get one.”

  “Got one.”

  “What’s your mother like?”

  “Okay. Still alive. Pretty strong woman.”

  “Spunky?”

  “You might say so.”

  “Your old man’s . . . ah . . .”

  “Dead.”

  “Passed away, huh?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  “What man? You pullin’ my leg? You shouldn’t fool with things like that.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Like saying your old man’s dead.”

  “My old man’s dead. Dead and [bite] gone [swallow].”

  “Stop that.”

  “Tell him that.”

  “Wait’ll you get my age.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a crime to talk about your old man like that. You should never fool with things like that. They should horsewhip everyone under a certain age once a week.”

  “Who should?”

  “The government should.”

  “Who’s gonna buy the whips? Who’s gonna do the whipping?”

  “Simple. The police. They should do it in public.”

  “They should kill old men and old ladies. How’d you like that?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “Now you know how I feel.”

  “Your poor mother. I feel for her, I really do.”

  “I’m the one that’s supporting her.”

  “That’s the least you can do. The very least.”

  “She’s not so poor. She gets enough to eat.”

  “So you get enough to eat and you’re not poor. You got a lot to learn about people, sonny.”

  “You got a lot to learn about my mother.”

  “Mothers got hearts. Hearts got to be fed, too.”

  “With love. Ha-ha.”

  “With love.”

  “I can’t swallow that.”

  “Food isn’t enough. You’ll learn.”

  “Don’t tell me about my own mother, okay? I like her a lot. Maybe more than your mother.”

  “You don’t even know my mother.”

  “But you meet her and then decide. She raised me, okay. Never hit me once. Now she goes and makes me get this job. She doesn’t have it so bad and certainly isn’t poor.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “She likes to eat. She eats like a hog.”

  “What’s wrong with eating?”

  “No one said anything’s wrong with eating.”

  “I’m an old man. Ate my way through three wars.”

  “It’s some peo
ple’s hobby. It’s her job.”

  “I’m partial to eating myself,” said Mr. Gibbon after a pause.

  And they both went on eating.

  After work Mr. Gibbon said, “I’d like to meet your mother. Bet she’s a fine woman.”

  Herbie thought a moment. He had told his mother that he would come home once in a while. The weekend was coming and if Mr. Gibbon came Herbie wouldn’t have to explain the Kant-Brake operation to her. Mr. Gibbon would do all the talking. Herbie wouldn’t have to say a word.

  “I’m going home on Friday. You can come along if you want.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Gibbon, “I’d like that fine. There’s not a hell of a lot to do on the weekend you know. Just my paper bags and cleaning my brass and such. And Miss Ball’s got that gentleman friend that usually drops in.”

  Herbie felt foolish. There he was, walking down the street with an old man. But not just any old man. No, this old man was a real fuddy-duddy. There was something queer about it. Mr. Gibbon was taller than Herbie, like a big bear, a bear with a cardboard rump ambling next to a little monkey of a boy. It was Herbie and not Mr. Gibbon that had simian features.

  It looked as though there should be a leash between them. One of them should have had a collar on, but it was a toss-up as to which one should be holding the leash.

  Herbie had never walked so close to an old man before. Or an old lady, either. That included his mother. Herbie’s mother didn’t get out much. So when she opened the door to greet them her complexion was the color of newsprint, the kind of skin color that one would expect of a person who lived in a living room, slept on a sofa, and ate chocolates with the shades drawn. To Herbie she looked disturbingly well.

  She motioned for them to sit down. The TV show wasn’t over yet. She kept her eyes fixed on the blue tube and shook a fistful of chocolates at some chairs. The screen jaggered and the picture went to pieces. Herbie got up to adjust the set. Mrs. Gneiss waved him back to his seat. Then she stomped on the carpet with her foot. Her shapeless felt slipper came off, but her bare foot raised itself for another go. The TV snapped back to life, the picture composed itself on the command of Mrs. Gneiss’s big foot.

  The show went on for several hours. First there was a newsreel, then something entitled “Irregularity and You,” then a half-hour of folk songs which concerned themselves with bombs and deformed babies, then a documentary about the human scalp, a dance show complete with disc jockey showed teenaged girls and boys bumping themselves against each other, and finally a panel of Negroes and Mexicans discussed who had been abused the most seriously. When they started feverishly stripping off their shirts to show their wounds and scars, Mrs. Gneiss stomped on the floor again and the TV shut itself off.

  “Television,” Mr. Gibbon said. And that was all he said.

  Mrs. Gneiss looked at him. She chewed at him.

  “Mr. Gibbon,” Herbie said, “this is my mother.”

  “Well, any friend of Herbie’s,” said Mrs. Gneiss. Then she picked up a large piece of chocolate. It was an odd shape, perhaps in the shape of a fish. She threw it into her mouth, and once her mouth was filled she said, “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  Herbie swallowed, determined not to vomit.

  “Say,” said Mr. Gibbon, “is that an Eskimo Pie?”

  “Thipth,” said Mrs. Gneiss. But she could not speak. She wagged her finger negatively.

  “Looks like one,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago we used to have them. My buddies used to eat ’em like candy.”

  “They were candy, weren’t they?” said Mrs. Gneiss, once she had swallowed most of the chocolate.

  “You got something there,” said Mr. Gibbon.

  “Mr. Gibbon was in three wars,” said Herbie.

  “What ever happened to Eskimo Pies,” said Herbie’s mother.

  “That’s what I say,” said Mr. Gibbon brightening.

  “Even if they did have them today they’d be little dinky things.”

  “That’s the God’s truth,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago the Hershey Bars were the big things.”

  “Nowadays they’re a gyp,” said Mrs. Gneiss. “I try to tell Herbie how much he’s being gypped nowadays, but he never listens. He just laps up all those lies.”

  “Big ideas!” Mr. Gibbon started. He crept over to the sofa and sat next to Mrs. Gneiss. When he got there he was almost out of breath. “Big ideas,” he finally said again. “I think years ago people were smarter than they are now, but they didn’t have any smart ideas like people do now.”

  “Right!” said Herbie’s mother. “I knew a lot of people in my day, but I never met one with any smart ideas. Boy, I remember those big Hersheys!”

  “Trollies, too,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago we used to hitch rides on ’em. Loads of fun, believe me. But today? I’d like to see you try that today?”

  “Try what today?” asked Herbie.

  “Hitchin’ a trolley-bus,” said Mr. Gibbon.

  “You mean riding?”

  “No, I mean hitching. You crawl on the back of the thing and hold on with your fingernails. Doesn’t cost a penny. Nowadays you’d get killed on a bus. You could do it easy then.”

  “What for?” Herbie asked. But no one answered.

  Herbie’s mother and Mr. Gibbon continued to talk excitedly of the past. They talked of penny candy, nickel ice creams and dime novels. Mr. Gibbon said that he had once bought a whole box of stale White Owl cigars for five cents and then smoked the whole boxfull under his front steps. He had been violently ill.

  “The things you could do with a nickel,” Herbie’s mother said nostalgically.

  “Remember Hoot Gibson?”

  “Whatever became of Hoot Gibson?”

  “The old story.”

  “Isn’t it always the way.”

  “No one cares.”

  They talked next of Marx and Lincoln. Not the famous German economist and the Great Emancipator, but Groucho and Elmo. Mr. Gibbon went on to tell how he had run away from school at a very early age. He said that kids nowadays didn’t have the guts to do that. How he used to go fishing with a bent pin and a bamboo pole, how he had joined the army at a very early age. No fancy ideas. Nowadays it was the fancy ideas that were ruining people.

  “I don’t have any fancy ideas,” said Herbie.

  “You do, and you know it,” said his mother, silencing him.

  “Years ago,” said Mr. Gibbon, “good food, clean living, nice kids.”

  “Nowadays,” said Mrs. Gneiss, “I don’t know how I stand it.”

  Mr. Gibbon said that he had known a girl in his youth that looked just the way Herbie’s mother must have looked. Full of freckles and vanilla ice cream, plump, but not fat. Just the prettiest little thing on earth!

  “You’ll stay, of course,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

  “Course,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Us old folks got a lot of things to talk about.”

  “Sure do,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

  “Probably wouldn’t interest the youngster,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Now if I’m imposing you just tell me to scoot the blazes out of here.”

  “Imposing! I should say not. We’ll just pop a couple of TV dinners in the oven. No trouble ay-tall! Unless you mind instant coffee.”

  “Drink it all the time. Makes me big and strong,” said Mr. Gibbon, his eyes glinting, his lips wet and pink.

  “You’re a card,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

  “Not so bad yourself, Grandma!”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

  “So’s your ole man,” said Mr. Gibbon.

  “I’m tired,” said Herbie. “I think I’ll go to bed.” He took ten dollars out of his pay envelope and gave his mother the remainder. She thanked him. Herbie stared at the money on his mother’s lap. Then he went to bed.<
br />
  Just before he got into bed he heard Mr. Gibbon say, “They had all-day suckers then. You never see an all-day sucker now­adays. Not one.”

  Throughout the night Herbie was awakened by wheezing and groaning and the creaking of springs. That was that. He tried to prevent his mind from making a picture of it, but the more he tried the sharper the picture became. He switched on the radio to keep his mind off the noise in the next room. The news was on. The president had just had his kidney stone and gallbladder removed. The commentator said, “the stone had the appearance of an irregular gold nugget or arrowhead. The opened gallbladder was reddish brown and the greenish half-inch gallstone, which infected, was visible in the lower left fold near the cystic duct. . . .” After this the president himself came on and said that he just had to get out of the hospital and do his work, even if it meant further infection. There was a war on and that had to be tended to.

  With the radio buzzing about the movements of troops, Herbie went softly to sleep.

  8

  Mr. Gibbon became a frequent visitor to Herbie’s house.

  Herbie stopped going home altogether. Instead, he went for walks around Mount Holly, met a girl and took her to bed. The first time they went to bed the girl said, “New, new, new!” which struck Herbie as odd. But they made love just the same. Afterward, when Herbie offered the girl a cigarette, she said simply, “New, thank you.” Like Herbie the girl had no plans, and Herbie had no plans for her.

  Herbie’s mother became more hostile, but also less demanding. Herbie sent her less and less money each week. She did not mention this in her letters. Instead she sent more letters and started using phrases like, “Life is just beginning for me,” “a big new world is opening up,” “Charlie has taught me how to live and love,” “old people have feelings too,” “the sky’s the limit” and “dawn is breaking.” They were very uncharacteristic phrases. Mr. Gibbon had apparently kindled a flame inside his mother, Herbie thought.

  Indeed, Mr. Gibbon had done just that. Mrs. Gneiss, Mr. Gibbon, and Miss Ball had started an outing club to get fresh air. They walked, brought cold lunches, ate devilled eggs, and listened to their transistor radio. Some color—not much, but some—came into Mrs. Gneiss’s face. It would be rash to say she had a ruddy complexion, but it certainly wasn’t chalky. It was lemony after a few picnics, and then it took on a slightly veined pinkish hue. The outings were doing her good. The walking increased her appetite, which Mr. Gibbon was now paying for. She gained weight, but the new bulk was not perceptible. Only other really fat people notice changes in a fat person. Mrs. Gneiss was not embarrassed by the added weight. She repeated that everything she ate turned to fat. There was no question that she was coming alive. She had started wearing dresses and muu-muus and had burned her tattered kimono. She took to walking and sweating. Firmness came into her hams and trotters just as color came into her jowls.