Paul Theroux: Murder in Mount Holly

“I should have explained,” said Miss Ball. “I’m a teacher . I teach kindergarten in the basement of Mount Holly High. We call the boy’s room the boy’s room. I should have explained. How silly of me!” She giggled.

“Oh,” said Herbie.

“What do you do?”

“Well, I’m not working at present. But I think I’ll be working at Kant-Brake. The toy factory.”

“Holy mackerel! That’s where Mr. Gibbon works! What a co- in -cidence!”

“Fabulous,” said Herbie dryly.

“Why, you can’t turn me down now !” Miss Ball said with glee. “Mr. Gibbon’ll be sore as a boil if you don’t come.”

“I see,” said Herbie.

“We’ve got something in com -mon!” exclaimed Miss Ball as if she had found her son, lost these many years.

“So we do,” said Herbie.

“I’ll expect you for supper. At six. Don’t be a minute late, Mr. Gibbon doesn’t like cold greens.”

“Who is this Mr. Gibbon?” Herbie asked. But Miss Ball had already hung up.

A new tenant! It was like a gift from above. He will provide . That was Miss Ball’s motto. He always provided. First the operation, then Juan, then Herbie, who worked at the very same place as Mr. Gibbon! Wonders never did cease as long as He provided in the moment of need. He could positively move mountains. Good Old Providence.

In Miss Ball’s case He had moved something considerably more spherical than a mountain. He did just that from His Dwelling Place Up There where things were white mostly, soft, and didn’t cost a cent. It really was as simple as all that. If only people knew what the very simple secret was: make yourself like a little child. You had to make yourself tiny and really believe in that Big Man Up There. Making herself like a starlet was, in her mind, the same thing as making herself like a little child, pleasing and fresh as a daisy to The Big Fellow In The Sky. And why not a starlet? Especially since she had a natural bent in that direction, a gift, so to speak. It was all the same. He knew what was in your heart. You couldn’t fool Him.

So Miss Ball got a new tenant, Herbie, and she was able to raise Juan’s allowance, and she found that she was better natured to her kindergarten. Everything was rosy. All the money that Herbie would pay for room and board Miss Ball would turn over to Juan. It all came out in the end. She was no Jew. Why should she try to make a buck on a kid that didn’t have beans to start with? That wasn’t her way. Not Miss Ball. Maybe some people, but not Miss Ball.

“So what, he’s nice,” Mr. Gibbon said. Herbie had not come at six. Mr. Gibbon had his cold greens and grumbled about them, and now, at breakfast, he was still grumbling. Herbie had arrived late and Mr. Gibbon had heard the racket. He was awakened from a vicious dream: a Dark Stranger was trying to steal his paper bags. The Dark Stranger had snatched nearly every one of them. It was a Negro, a tall one, who wanted the bags to put watermelons in. Mr. Gibbon had fought with him, and during the fight woke to the noise of Herbie banging the bureau drawers in the next room.

“That’s his name.” Miss Ball spelled it out and pronounced it. “Gneiss.”

“It sounds Jewish if you ask me.”

“Everything sounds Jewish if you say it a certain way,” said Miss Ball, trying for a little wisdom. “But he’s not. He’s not Jewish.”

“Probably changed it.”

“He said he’s American.”

“All Jews think they’re Americans. Everybody does. That’s the only fault I can find with this country. Everybody thinks they’re so damn big. Like this Gneiss.”

“Don’t be so cranky. You don’t even know him.”

“You’re the one who’s cranky.”

“He’s okay. He looks tip-top. Very clean-looking.”

“That’s not like you, Miss Ball. Sticking up for a Jew.”

“I’m not sticking up for a Jew. I’m sticking up for my new boarder.”

“He’s a Jew.”

“He’s not. He’s a fine young man with a remarkably small nose.”

“What’s the difference. They’ll take over the country, like everyone else, I suppose. They’ll come.” Mr. Gibbon heaved a sigh. “But I hope to God they don’t come in my lifetime.”

“Shush,” said Miss Ball. “You’re big and strong. You’ve got a lot of time left.”

“I hate that expression you’ve got a lot of time left . Like you’re waiting to punch the time clock and drop dead.”

“He must be dead tired. He came by bus all the way from Holly Heights.”

“Used to have a guy in the platoon named Gnefsky, or something like that. He was a Jew.”

“He’s not a Jew.”

“Don’t tell me! He was in my platoon, not yours. I should know.”

“I mean Herbie, the new boy.”

Mr. Gibbon muttered. He couldn’t grit his teeth. He didn’t have enough of them to grit.

“He wanted to know what the boy’s room was. Isn’t that precious ?”

“In the army we used to call it the crapper. He probably doesn’t know what that means either.”

“Now you just be careful what you say,” said Miss Ball. She clapped her hands and then said, “Oh, I’m so excited! It’s like opening night!”

“He probably smokes in bed.”

“It reminds me of the day I saw the playback of my movie. That was in. . let’s see. .”

For, the next few minutes Miss Ball relived a story she had told so many times that Mr. Gibbon was actually interested to see what changes she had made since the last time he heard it. There she was, Miss Ball in her first starring role, madly in love with the dashing special agent. He was an undercover man but, unlike most undercover men, everyone knew him and feared him. He was big and strong, liked good wine and luscious women and was always forking over money to flocks of ragged stool-pigeons who tipped him off. He dressed fit to kill and was very well-mannered. And when the spying was over for the day he came back to his sumptuous apartment and slapped Miss Ball around. When he got tired of slapping her around he nuzzled her, and bit her on the neck, and then threw her a gold lamé dress and they went out on the town where, in the middle of their expensive dinner, they were set upon by the squat shaven-headed crooks. Her undercover agent boyfriend was a real bastard, but you couldn’t help liking the guy. In the end he ran out on Miss Ball. To do good.

“Here he comes now,” said Miss Ball to Mr. Gibbon.

Mr. Gibbon turned away and began staring at the loudspeaker of the radio.

“Good morning.” It was Herbie.

“You’re early,” said Miss Ball. “You’re an early bird.”

“ Shh .” Mr. Gibbon did not turn. He seemed to be shushing the radio.

“I try,” Herbie whispered.

“That’s what counts.”

“Shut up,” said Mr. Gibbon. He still did not turn away from the radio, and the radio happened to be playing the National Anthem. As soon as he said it the anthem ended, and the effect was quite incongruous. Shut up and then the end of that glorious song.

“Your first breakfast,” said Miss Ball.

“Yes,” said Herbie. “My first breakfast.”

“Did you ever shoot a machine-gun?” Miss Ball leaned toward Herbie.

“Beg pardon?”

“A machine-gun.” She chewed her toast. “Did you ever shoot one?”

“No. Why?” Herbie twitched.

“Just asking, that’s all.”

“Did you ever shoot a machine-gun?”

“No.”

“But you’d like to shoot one. Is that it?”

“No.” Miss Ball laughed. “Really no.”

“You’re interested in guns? You collect them or. .”

“Gosh,” said Miss Ball, “I didn’t mean to start anything. I was just wondering out loud, just making conversation. Idle conversation I guess you’d call it.”