Paul Theroux: Murder in Mount Holly

“I am sick.”

“You don’t look sick to me.”

“The sickest people in the world don’t look sick. I’m sick at heart. Heart-sick, that’s what I am. And afraid.”

“You said you were dying in the letter.”

“Of course I’m dying. What do you expect? You think I’m going to live forever?”

“I mean now. You said you were dying now.”

“You mean this semester?” Mrs. Gneiss chewed.

“I don’t know what I mean. I only thought that it was urgent. Now I get here and it doesn’t look so urgent.”

Mrs. Gneiss continued mumbling: “I wouldn’t have gotten you away from your precious books if I didn’t think it was urgent,” she finished quickly. “Now I’m sick and that’s all there is to it.”

Herbie started to say something.

“I know what you’re going to say. You don’t look sick . [She mimicked him perfectly.] Well, for your information, I am sick. Seriously ill, as they say. I say I’m sick, and if I say I’m sick that should be good enough for you. If it’s not. .” Mrs. Gneiss thought a moment. “If it’s not, well, tough taffy, you’re home and you’re staying home until I drop. You’ve got to like it or lump it. You’ve got to learn to like it — as we used to say back at college !” This sent Mrs. Gneiss into torrents of creamy laughter.

With only his mother’s death on his mind, Herbie said, “Okay.”

“It won’t be so bad.”

“No.”

“Of course, you might have to get a job, and all that.”

A job ? The word had almost no meaning for Herbie. He was one of those people who had escaped the tedium of paper routes and had dodged what other more enterprising adolescents had got: selling glow-in-the-dark Krismiss Kards, foot balm, tins of greasy unguent — all in return for B-B guns and autographed catchers’ mitts. Herbie had never worked a day in his life. There was simply no need to work. He liked to read and had started smoking at an early age. So why should he have had to work (of all things) to kill time? There were thousands of ways to kill time without working. And besides, his father was always there, had been at least. A very little man, very generous, very hard to remember; one of those faces that no one can describe — probably a perfect criminal’s face. Herbie had gotten money out of him. Now Herbie missed him, for the first time in his life.

Herbie sighed.

“It won’t be for long,” said Herbie’s mother. Then she added, “Although the longer the better, if you can see this from my point of view.”

Herbie looked at his mother. She was still eating away happily, shoveling in the ice cream on potato chips. One thing about his mother: she wasn’t a show off. She didn’t try to pretend she was thin. She knew she was fat. She looked fat. She had no time for girdles; she never used make-up, had never had her face lifted. Her one extravagance had been painting her toenails, but this was now virtually impossible. She would have had to learn to be a contortionist, and she knew there were no fat contortionists. Her wish now was to sit, to be left alone with a lot of food, and to spread in all directions under her kimono. There are two ways to die, Herbie thought: one, you don’t eat enough and you starve to death; two, you stuff yourself and collapse with a belch. No, he didn’t hate her. But if she had to go it might as well happen along the starchy street she had been traveling all along. It was her wish.

“When do I start?”

“Very soon.”

“All right, I’ll just unpack. .”

“Don’t bother,” said Herbie’s mother.

“Don’t bother? I thought you said you wanted me around?”

“I do,” she said, shushing him. “I want you around here so bad I could yell, but there are no jobs hereabouts, so you’ll have to live near where you work. .”

Herbie’s mother summed up the job situation. There were too many Puerto Ricans from God knows where working for a song. They took all the jobs there were to take. It was the way of these Puerto Rican people. They really didn’t want the jobs. What they really wanted was a lot of bananas. But their senses told them: move in and take the jobs. They didn’t know what to do with the jobs once they got them, but there were a lot of Puerto Ricans and only a few good honest hardworking kids like Herbie in Holly Heights.

Holly Heights was a suburb of Holly. There were also Lower Holly, Mount Holly, Holly-on-the-Ivy (a creek), East, West, North and South Holly, Holly Junction, Holly Falls, Holly Rapids, Hollyville, Hollypool, Hollyminster, Holly Springs and a dozen others, including, yes, Hollywood. This covered an area of about two hundred square miles.

If Herbie moved into Holly proper, or in the adjoining burg of Mount Holly, he would have a better chance. There were lots of jobs going begging.

“I’ve never begged in my life,” said Herbie.

“Oh, tons of jobs,” Herbie’s mother said. “Just remember, there are bills to pay. Medicine, your father’s medicine. It seems a downright shame to have to pay for medicine now that he’s dead. It seems crazy. I mean, why did we buy the medicine in the first place? And the embalmer’s fees, the flowers and the headstone. Well, that’s a break — you won’t have to get another headstone for me, although you’ll have to have my name chiseled on the stone. Extra with the initial. And there’s always my food. Food is just like medicine to me.” Mrs. Gneiss stopped talking as soon as she remembered what she had said about her dead husband’s medicine.

“A job.”

“When we get some cash you’ll be free and clear. So will I. I’ll be able to rest easy.” Rest easy, Mrs. Gneiss thought; that’s a slip of the tongue. “Just try not to think about it,” she went on. “Do your work and send home some cash every week. I’ll send you fried chicken in the mail, and letters too. Like always.” Then, for no reason at all, she said, “It’ll be like old times.”

“I was doing pretty good at college, you know.”

“You’ll be able to go back,” said Herbie’s mother. “After.”

“Mmmm.”

“Do this for me, Herbie. Just this once.”

Herbie promised that he would. His mother really wasn’t so bad. Just fat was all. He would go to Mount Holly and make good. There were lots of jobs there; lots of factories were crying to get people.

“Kant-Brake,” said Herbie’s mother. “They need people real bad.”

“Well, maybe I’ll look them up.”

“You will.”

“I will?”

“Yes, I’ve written a letter to the owner. Used to know your father,” said Mrs. Gneiss, handing her son the letter. “You’ve just got to look neat as a pin and they’ll hire you. And give them the letter.”

“What the hell,” Herbie said. “Might as well be there as any other place. What did you say they made there?”

“Toys. You know, toys? Those little. .”

“Oh, toys.”

Mrs. Gneiss was through with her explanation. She turned back to the TV. She champed her ice cream sullenly. After a few moments a fearful burp trembled through her body, crinkling her kimono and making her shake her head. It sent Herbie out of the room and into bed.

The next day Herbie kissed his mother goodbye and took the bus to Holly Heights. When he arrived he bought a newspaper. First a room, then a job, he thought. His eye was caught by an ad for a room. He called the number. A woman answered and, though her voice was a trifle shrill, seemed nice. She said he’d have to come over. Herbie agreed. Herbie mentioned Kant-Brake Toys. She said she had another boarder at Kant-Brake Toys. Herbie said that sounded just fine. He went right over.