Murder in Mount Holly (5 page)

6

Work at Kant-Brake went on. Millions of tanks, Jeeps, and rockets rolled off the assembly line without a hitch. Herbie got to enjoy working once he learned the routine. He sent money home, got an occasional note from his mother saying that she was keeping alive and well. Life at Miss Ball's was fairly pleasant. Mr. Gibbon grumbled, barked a lot, but did not bite. Miss Ball was a sym­pathetic person, although she wore very heavy make-up. Herbie did not expect a woman with a perfectly white face, a little greasy red bow for lips, and hair that was sometimes blue, sometimes as silver as one of Kant-Brake's fuselages, and always tight with hard little curls, to be a nice lady. But she was kind and tolerant. She said she owed all her tolerance to her membership in the D.A.R.

Herbie talked to Miss Ball about many things. She knew the movements of any actor, actress, or starlet he could name: who was queer, who was in Italy, who was really seventy and said he was forty-four. And late one evening, when they were talking about marriages, Herbie asked Miss Ball if she had ever been married. Juan was taken for granted. He was just one of the hired help and didn't count.

“Sure,” said Miss Ball, “I've been married.”

“No kidding?”

“Wouldn't think so, would you?”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I'm not the type.”

“What's
the type
?”

“With a flowered apron, hamburgers sizzling on the griddle, with shiny teeth and bouncy hair. My hair's all dull and streaky.”

“That's the
type
?” Herbie thought only of his mother. She hadn't had any of the things Miss Ball mentioned. All she had, as a married woman, was a scrappy little runt of a husband.

“That's what they say.”

“I never heard it.”

“But,” Miss Ball smiled, “did you put your thinking-cap on?”

“Well, what about him?”

“Him? You mean my
hus
band?” A laugh did not quite make it out of Miss Ball's throat, although there were signs of it approaching. It never came.

“Yes,” said Herbie. “Your husband. The man you married.”

“Whatever became of him,” sighed Miss Ball. “What shall I say? Shall I say we loved and then were, as they say, estranged? Or shall I tell you he was a big producer who did me dirt? Or shall I tell you he was a poor boy, a very mixed up young man that I found committing highly unnatural acts in the summer house with another twisted little fellow? Shall I tell you he was a bald-faced liar? Yes, that's what he was, a liar.”

Miss Ball tried to flutter her hand to her lips. But it was late in the evening and her hand never got beyond her left breast.

“. . . he
did
do me wrong. Very, very wrong. But I'm not him, thank God. I am not that man and I don't have to live with his terrible conscience—I'd hate to be in his shoes right now.”

“Where is he?”

“He's dead.”

“I wouldn't like to be in his shoes either,” said Herbie.

“There was a bit of the Irish in him, you know,” said Miss Bail, abandoning the dramatic-hysteric role and lapsing into what she intended to be a brogue. “A bit of the oold sahd . . .” She stopped and then went on. “Full o' blarney, he was.” Miss Ball just could not get a twinkle out of her heavily made-up eyes. Her eyelids kept sticking. “The sonofabitch.”

Venom frothed and boiled out of some hidden nodes in Miss Ball's body, surprising Herbie. Miss Ball cracked all her make-up to flakes in her rage. She was such a nice old lady, Herbie thought. And now Herbie didn't know her.

“The no-good sonofabitch. Want to know what he used to do? Hated me so much he used to get up early in the morning, before me. Then he'd sit down—it was four in the morning—and just eat his Jungle Oats as nice as you please. Then coffee. Had to have his coffee. Then, when he finished, he'd take the coffeemaker, the electric coffeemaker, and pull the screws out and screw the top off and wind the friction-tape off the plug I had to fix about ten times because he was too lazy. Then he'd fill the sink with hot soapy water and dunk the coffeemaker into the water and leave it in the suds.”

“And where were you?”

“I was in bed! That's where you belong at four in the morning—not taking coffeepots apart so your wife can't have her coffee. But it doesn't stop there,” said Miss Ball. “Not by a long shot it doesn't stop there.”

“He does sound like a skunk,” Herbie offered.

“He was a regular S.O.B.,” said Miss Ball. “And I hope you know what that means.”

“I guess . . .”

“But that wasn't all, because then he had to yell in my room at the top of his lungs.”

“He
had
to?”

“That was part of the thing, the act he did. He always did the same thing every morning.”

“So what did he yell?”

Miss Ball stood up from her wing-chair and cupped her hand to her mouth like an umpire. She even raised her other arm as if she were signaling a safe catch. She twisted her mouth and shouted in an ear-splitting voice, “
When your ole lady died and went straight to hell she should have taken you with her and such and such and so and so!
” Miss Ball recovered, stared wide-eyed and said, “I wouldn't repeat some of the things he said to me those times.”

“Then he left.”

“Then he left,” said Miss Ball. “But he came back.”

“Really?” Herbie steadied himself for another blast. He was getting worried.

“He left in the morning. In the night he came back. He went to church and work in between.”

“Church. Which church?”

“The stupid Irish church, that's which church. He was what you might call a Catholic. He had to go to church.”

“I thought they just had to go on Sunday.”

“They don't.”

“That's not what I thought.”

“Not on Lent they don't.”

“But Lent is only a month or two in the winter, isn't it?”

“Don't ask me,” said Miss Ball. “It was always Lent in our house. Lent and hate.”

“Maybe marriages can be based on hate instead of love,” Herbie said.

“Ours was. The girls down at the D.A.R. said to stay away from Catholics if you want to stay tolerant. But I wouldn't listen. Sure, he wasn't all bad—he used to pick up stray cats and stuff. The girls said that's a sign of loneliness. He was probably lonely.”

“It was his way,” said Herbie. He had been waiting for a good chance to say it.

“Maybe that's it. He was good about cats. And I really couldn't divorce him for taking the coffeemaker apart. You don't walk into a court and say, I want a divorce—my husband takes the coffeepot apart before church every morning. It doesn't sound right. It wouldn't even sound right in a movie if Ava Gardner said it. Besides, who else is there? There aren't that many people in the world that you can just start tossing them away left and right just because they have a certain way about them. That's what love is—sticking with the guy even though he has creepy habits. It's learning to love the creepy habits so you can sleep in the same bed without killing the sonofabitch.”

“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.

7

“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.

She motioned for them to sit down. The TV show wasn't over yet. She kept her eyes fixed on the blue tube and shook a fistful of chocolates at some chairs. The screen jaggered and the picture went to pieces. Herbie got up to adjust the set. Mrs. Gneiss waved him back to his seat. Then she stomped on the carpet with her foot. Her shapeless felt slipper came off, but her bare foot raised itself for another go. The TV snapped back to life, the picture composed itself on the command of Mrs. Gneiss's big foot.

The show went on for several hours. First there was a newsreel, then something entitled “Irregularity and You,” then a half-hour of folk songs which concerned themselves with bombs and deformed babies, then a documentary about the human scalp, a dance show complete with disc jockey showed teenaged girls and boys bumping themselves against each other, and finally a panel of Negroes and Mexicans discussed who had been abused the most seriously. When they started feverishly stripping off their shirts to show their wounds and scars, Mrs. Gneiss stomped on the floor again and the TV shut itself off.

“Television,” Mr. Gibbon said. And that was all he said.

Mrs. Gneiss looked at him. She chewed at him.

“Mr. Gibbon,” Herbie said, “this is my mother.”

“Well, any friend of Herbie's,” said Mrs. Gneiss. Then she picked up a large piece of chocolate. It was an odd shape, perhaps in the shape of a fish. She threw it into her mouth, and once her mouth was filled she said, “Can I offer you something to eat?”

Herbie swallowed, determined not to vomit.

“Say,” said Mr. Gibbon, “is that an Eskimo Pie?”

“Thipth,” said Mrs. Gneiss. But she could not speak. She wagged her finger negatively.

“Looks like one,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago we used to have them. My buddies used to eat 'em like candy.”

“They
were
candy, weren't they?” said Mrs. Gneiss, once she had swallowed most of the chocolate.

“You got something there,” said Mr. Gibbon.

“Mr. Gibbon was in three wars,” said Herbie.

“What ever happened to Eskimo Pies,” said Herbie's mother.

“That's what I say,” said Mr. Gibbon brightening.

“Even if they did have them today they'd be little dinky things.”

“That's the God's truth,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago the Hershey Bars were the big things.”

“Nowadays they're a gyp,” said Mrs. Gneiss. “I try to tell Herbie how much he's being gypped nowadays, but he never listens. He just laps up all those lies.”

“Big ideas!” Mr. Gibbon started. He crept over to the sofa and sat next to Mrs. Gneiss. When he got there he was almost out of breath. “Big ideas,” he finally said again. “I think years ago people were smarter than they are now, but they didn't have any smart ideas like people do now.”

“Right!” said Herbie's mother. “I knew a lot of people in my day, but I never met one with any smart ideas. Boy, I remember those big Hersheys!”

“Trollies, too,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Years ago we used to hitch rides on 'em. Loads of fun, believe me. But today? I'd like to see you try that today?”

“Try
what
today?” asked Herbie.

“Hitchin' a trolley-bus,” said Mr. Gibbon.

“You mean riding?”

“No, I mean
hitching
. You crawl on the back of the thing and hold on with your fingernails. Doesn't cost a penny. Nowadays you'd get killed on a bus. You could do it easy then.”

“What for?” Herbie asked. But no one answered.

Herbie's mother and Mr. Gibbon continued to talk excitedly of the past. They talked of penny candy, nickel ice creams and dime novels. Mr. Gibbon said that he had once bought a whole box of stale White Owl cigars for five cents and then smoked the whole boxfull under his front steps. He had been violently ill.

“The things you could do with a nickel,” Herbie's mother said nostalgically.

“Remember Hoot Gibson?”

“Whatever became of Hoot Gibson?”

“The old story.”

“Isn't it always the way.”

“No one cares.”

They talked next of Marx and Lincoln. Not the famous German economist and the Great Emancipator, but Groucho and Elmo. Mr. Gibbon went on to tell how he had run away from school at a very early age. He said that kids nowadays didn't have the guts to do that. How he used to go fishing with a bent pin and a bamboo pole, how he had joined the army at a very early age. No fancy ideas. Nowadays it was the fancy ideas that were ruining people.

“I don't have any fancy ideas,” said Herbie.

“You
do,
and you know it,” said his mother, silencing him.

“Years ago,” said Mr. Gibbon, “good food, clean living, nice kids.”

“Nowadays,” said Mrs. Gneiss, “I don't know how I stand it.”

Mr. Gibbon said that he had known a girl in his youth that looked just the way Herbie's mother must have looked. Full of freckles and vanilla ice cream, plump, but not fat. Just the prettiest little thing on earth!

“You'll stay, of course,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

“Course,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Us old folks got a lot of things to talk about.”

“Sure do,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

“Probably wouldn't interest the youngster,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Now if I'm imposing you just tell me to scoot the blazes out of here.”

“
Imposing!
I should say not. We'll just pop a couple of TV dinners in the oven. No trouble
ay-tall
! Unless you mind instant coffee.”

“Drink it all the time. Makes me big and strong,” said Mr. Gibbon, his eyes glinting, his lips wet and pink.

“You're a card,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

“Not so bad yourself, Grandma!”

“Ha-ha-ha,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

“So's your ole man,” said Mr. Gibbon.

“I'm tired,” said Herbie. “I think I'll go to bed.” He took ten dollars out of his pay envelope and gave his mother the remainder. She thanked him. Herbie stared at the money on his mother's lap. Then he went to bed.

Just before he got into bed he heard Mr. Gibbon say, “They had all-day suckers then. You never see an all-day sucker now­adays. Not one.”