Paul Theroux - Murder in Mount Holly

“That’s what I call it,” Mr. Gibbon said, turning full face upon Miss Ball.

Mr. Gibbon’s face was a study in hardened stupidity. It had an old hungry look about it.

Mr. Gibbon’s lips kept moving, as if he were silently cursing Miss Ball’s idle conversation or finishing his egg. This made his nose — which was pointed and hooked — move also. Mr. Gibbon was wearing a khaki tie, a gray shirt — a sort of uniform.

“I’m not talking to you, ” Miss Ball said petulantly.

“I’m talking to you,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I went through three wars just so’s I could sit here in peace and quiet and listen to my favorite song. And with you blathering I can’t hear myself think, let alone listen to my favorite. .”

“We have a new boarder.”

“. . song,” Mr. Gibbon finished. He recovered and said to Herbie, “You been in the army?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“ What? ”

“I said, no what?”

“No what?” Herbie shook his head. “What what?”

“ You haven’t been in no army,” Mr. Gibbon roared.

“I didn’t say I had, did I?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why,” Herbie caught on, “ sir ?”

“’S’better. Sounds a hell of a lot better too. Reminds me of a fella we had in basic. A buddy of mine. He caught on. Didn’t sir nobody.”

“What happened to him?”

“He learned how.”

“How did he learn,” said Herbie, “sir?”

“They fixed him up real good. Then he learned.”

“Fixed him up?” asked Miss Ball, suddenly becoming involved in the conversation.

“Beat the living stuffings out of him.”

“That will be just about enough of that,” said Miss Ball.

Mr. Gibbon had gone on eating, however, and did not hear. He chewed slowly, his fork upraised, his eyes vacant, but staring in the general direction of Herbie, as if he had just missed a good chance to beat the living stuffings out of Herbie.

“ Well! ” Miss Ball said, folding her hands and grinning into Herbie’s face. “You come from Holly Heights?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been there myself, but they say it’s nice.”

“It’s very nice. Like a lot of the nice places it’s very, very nice.”

“You look like a reader.”

“I like to read very much.”

“I was never a great reader,” Mr. Gibbon offered, in order to signal that he was no longer interested in beating up Herbie.

“What does your daddy do?”

Herbie cringed. He had forgotten for a while that he had a daddy — a father, that is. He thought of the man and then said, “My daddy — my father — was in tools.”

“ Was in tools?”

“He used to make them. He’s dead now, so he doesn’t make them anymore.”

“There’s good money in tools,” said Mr. Gibbon. “And there’s still a bundle to be made in tools.”

“I was never interested in tools myself,” said Herbie. “People say I don’t take after my father. Maybe they’re right. I don’t care about tools, although I realize they’re important in their own way — just like people are. .”

“ Hell of a lot of money to be made in tools. Specially in machine tools.”

“It’s almost time for school,” said Miss Ball, looking at her Snooz-Alarm, which she carried around with her in the house.

“Your old man make machine tools?”

“Nearly time, I said,” Miss Ball announced again.

“You don’t mind interrupting an intelligent conversation, do you?” Mr. Gibbon was angry at Miss Ball. He had the habit of never saying anyone’s name. He glared in the proper direction instead, to identify the person.

Miss Ball faced him. Then she patted Herbie on the arm and said, “Don’t you worry about old grumpy here. That’s his way of making friends.”

“If I feel like grousing, I grouse,” said Mr. Gibbon truculently. “I don’t care what people think. I been through three wars.”

“Which three?” Herbie asked.

“ Which three! ” Mr. Gibbon almost choked. “You hear that?” Mr. Gibbon faced Miss Ball. “That’s a laugh.” He laughed and then turned back to his breakfast and muttered once again, “Which three. For cry-eye.”

“I’d like to talk to you some time about war,” said Herbie.

“Any time,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I’m always prepared.”

“He’ll talk your ear off,” said Miss Ball.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, frankly.”

“He always does it. It’s his way.” Miss Ball spoke as if Mr. Gibbon were not at the table. But he was at the table, studying the horror-mask cutout on the back of the cereal box.

“I mean war,” said Herbie.

“So does he,” said Miss Ball, amused.

Mr. Gibbon grunted.

“But you’ll get used to it. We all do. He’s not so bad. Just in the mornings he’s a little grumpy. Isn’t that right, Grumpy?”

“You’re going to be late for school.”

“Imagine,” said Miss Ball. “You both work at the same factory. Isn’t that something?”

Herbie admitted that it was something, and then he saw Mr. Gibbon rise, click his heels, and march out the door. Herbie gulped his milk and followed.

Herbie trotted, skipped, and hopped after Mr. Gibbon, who was striding grimly down the sidewalk to the Kant-Brake Toy Factory. At first Herbie held the letter in his hand, but when he noticed that the envelope was getting sweaty and wrinkled he stuffed it into his pocket. Herbie had asked Mr. Gibbon who the man was whose name was on the envelope (a certain Mr. D. Soulless). “The old man himself,” Mr. Gibbon had answered, without breaking his stride.

At the front gate there was a sentry box, striped with red and white, and in front of it, at attention, was a militarily dressed (V. F. W. blue cap, braids, puttees, combat boots, breeches, assorted stained medals and insignia) though very old sentry. The sentry held a thick M-1 rifle (obs.) in place.

Mr. Gibbon snapped the sentry a salute and started through the gate with Herbie. “He’s okay,” said Mr. Gibbon to the sentry, jerking his thumb in Herbie’s direction. “Gonna see the old man. Business.”

But the sentry came forward. Herbie saw that he was about ninety. He levelled his rifle at Herbie. The rifle shook and then inscribed an oval on Herbie’s chest.

“Don’t you move,” the sentry said threateningly.

“He’s okay,” Mr. Gibbon said. But he did not insist.

“Can’t let him through without no authorization from the old man hisself.”

“He’s new,” said Mr. Gibbon, but Mr. Gibbon’s heart was not in it. Rules were rules. He knew better than to ask the sentry to do something that was not allowed. He knew the sentry well. Skeeter, the guys called him. He had towed targets during one of the wars.

“I got my orders,” said the sentry. His rifle was still weaving at Herbie and once it even stabbed Herbie’s shirt.

Herbie tried to shrug, but he was afraid to shrug too hard. He thought it might make the gun go off. He imagined a fist-sized slug bursting through his chest.

“I’ll call the C.O.,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I’ll clear it through him.”

“How am I supposed to know who you are? Every man’s a Red until he can show me different,” the sentry said. Mr. Gibbon walked up the road to the main office. Apparently the sentry saw no point in talking to Herbie. He stopped. Perhaps he was out of breath.

“Lots of security around here,” said Herbie, hoping to calm the man down.

“Maybe,” was the cryptic reply.

“I mean, for a toy factory. Most toy factories don’t have this much security, do they?”