Paul Theroux: Murder in Mount Holly

The emphasis was on realism, on craftsmanship. Now the toy soldiers could be wounded, bandaged, cared for. “They bleed real blood!” the ads ran. And everything they said was true — you could hardly tell it from the “real thing.” Each item was perfectly formed, expertly detailed; the colonels frowned, the captains were grim, the faces of the foot soldiers were twisted in fear, pain, anxiety. Midget canteens held real water. The bombs fumed, the tanks groaned, the rockets were guaranteed to light up any child’s playroom in a red glare.

Mr. Gibbon was good with his hands, and his memory for army details was infallible. He could spot an imperfect M-1 several feet away. He studied rocketry in the evenings, and he had plans for complicated war games that he hoped would be accepted by the Games Department. Kids nowadays, he said, didn’t give a hoot for Chinese Checkers and Old Maid. Kids had a vital interest in the world. War toys stimulated kids to keep up with current events. War toys were good for kids; a well-armed kid could work out all his aggressions in a single Christmas morning.

The director of Kant-Brake also held surprise inspections. The company picnics were called “maneuvers.” The annual convention in West Holly was called a “bivouac.” The company prospered.

Mr. Gibbon stood at attention near the conveyor belt and squinted at the grey specks moving toward him. As they passed he gave a snappy salute, made a notation on his clipboard and said “Roger.” Mr. Gibbon watched the parade of toys pass.

Miss Ball taught kindergarten, loved her country and things with catchy names. Her house was full of things with catchy names: Stay-Kleen, Brasso, Reck-Itch, Keen-tone, Kem-Thrill, Kwickee-Treets and Frosty-Smaks. At school she had Ed-U-Kards in her Ed-U-Kit, Erase-Eez and all the Skool-Way products. She also had a Snooz-Alarm Clock (“. . It lets you sleep”) and hundreds of other things with catchy names. They kept her in the swim, she said.

She knew the value of a dollar, and even though she always bought things “on time” she paid her bills. It was not that she owed no man. She owed everyone. But she always paid up.

And so when her lover, Juan, the school janitor, needed a few extra two-bits, she always paid. She called it “pin-money.” Juan’s demands became more and more, and still Miss Ball paid or promised to pay. She had no intention of dropping Juan just because there wasn’t enough money in the jam jar. When Juan grew impatient and muttered in the broom closet, Miss Ball had the presence of mind to take a day off from school.

It took a whole afternoon in the wing chair to come up with the solution. When it finally occurred to her she jumped up from the chair, said “Happy days,” and then smugly announced: “I’ll advertise.”

She did just that. She had plenty of room in the house. Why not take in another boarder? She decided to place an ad in the Mount Holly Chickadee . Her ad in the classified section of the paper was characteristic of her sweet disposition.

COMFY ROOM FOR PEANUTS

Large homey room, warm, for single male, hooked rug, big quilt, just perfect for student who wants all the comforts and doesn’t mind sharing “boy’s room.” Kitchen priv., tender loving care. Can’t miss. Cheap. Nice. Call after 6. Tel. 65355.

She just couldn’t keep it down to twenty-five words. It would have been a crying shame to do that.

She knew that it would click, too. Just as the ad which had fascinated Mr. Gibbon had clicked. But still she ran the ad for three days “just,” as she said to Mr. Gibbon, “for the sheer heck of it.”

Mr. Gibbon grunted something in return (he was out of sorts) and went on with his paper bags. He was now used to Miss Ball, and on top of it had been in the army. Miss Ball’s fling with Juan came as no great surprise. Things like that happened every day when you were in the army. Like when you find out your best buddy is a crumby stooge, or the C. 0. is a pansy, or your best girl ran off with your best friend and never wrote back except to say, Dearest, I’m going to make a clean breast of it. It was all in the army, all in the game. As for Miss Ball and Juan, that dago bastard, Mr. Gibbon really didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened.

He knew that she, Miss Ball, had just had that thing, that operation that women had sometimes. He couldn’t blame her. Women always did screwy things like making their hair navy blue (Miss Ball’s was “Starry Silver”), or putting lard on their faces, or even running off with the crazy Puerto Rican janitor at the school. He was an army man through and through, and understood these things like other people couldn’t understand them, since they had never had the privilege of going out and fighting, really fighting, with their guts, for their country. How could they know? But Mr. Gibbon knew damn well what was going on in Miss Ball’s mind. She was having her fling. He had seen a lot of folks come over the hill in his time, a damn sight more than a lot of people he knew that were always shooting their mouths off about human nature and such and such. He had seen people lose their marbles, too. Right in the same foxhole Mr. Gibbon had seen a man lose nearly every one of his marbles. But Mr. Gibbon had not done a damn thing because he had seen a lot of people come over the hill. He had seen guys on leave. Guys that had been in the trenches for days, months even. They had to get it out of their system.

Miss Ball? She had to get it out of her system too. So what if she was near sixty? Did that mean she didn’t have anything in her system maybe? Like hell. Gibbon could testify to the exact opposite of that little theory. You could bet your furlough on that. What made people think that young folks were different from old folks? That was something Mr. Gibbon could not understand.

What went for Mr. Gibbon went for Miss Ball. They were friends, comrades. Mr. Gibbon said nothing and that was good enough for Miss Ball. If Mr. Gibbon had told her one time he had told her a hundred: You’re young at heart.

“You’re young too, ” Miss Ball cheeped, when Mr. Gibbon gave his consent to the unsavory business with Juan.

“Not me, Toots,” Mr. Gibbon said gruffly.

Miss Ball had said he could have it his way. And he did have it his way. He could see what was going on in Miss Ball’s head, thinking all those crazy things. But still, he knew she was in no danger. It was her way. She was young at heart; why else did she stay up late reading all those movie magazines? But you’d never catch Mr. Gibbon making a damn fool out of himself with any two-bit big-assed movie queen (both Miss Ball and the magazines called them “starlets”).

Miss Ball believed that she was a starlet, although a little older than most of the other starlets. After her hysterectomy she believed it even more. And that was when Juan came onstage and left his broom behind. A few months later she placed the ad. It was all nice.

The ad clicked, as Miss Ball had predicted, to Mr. Gibbon.

After one day the phone rang.

The voice was young. A young gentleman. Perfect.

“Herbie what?” Miss Ball asked.

“Gneiss,” said Herbie. He spelled it out and then pronounced it.

This bewildered Miss Ball. She asked him his nationality.

“American, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“American.”

“We’re all Americans in this house,” said Miss Ball triumphantly. “Me and Mr. Gibbon — he’s the most American one of all. You’ll like him lots.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Herbie.

Herbie went on to inquire about the “boy’s room” that was mentioned in the ad. What exactly was the boy’s room and who would he have to share it with?