Paul Theroux - Murder in Mount Holly

“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.

“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 people’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.