Murder in Mount Holly

1

Herbie had no choice. He had to get a job, for his mother’s sake anyway. They weren’t dirt-poor and chewing their nails, but his father’s death insurance did not cover everything. At his mother’s request he had to quit college and come home. His mother now thought she would starve. Herbie would have to work to support his mother; she was a very fat lady.

“I eat like a bird, but everything I eat turns to fat,” was Mrs. Gneiss’s explanation as she stared wide-eyed at her enormous knees.

Herbie imagined everything she ate adhering to the inside of her skin, inflating her. Nothing ever left his mother’s body. Everything stuck.

“I’ve raised you good,” she would say in her suety voice, her lips never touching. “And I think it’s high time you made things a little easier for me. I haven’t got long and I want it to be sweet.”

Herbie had entered college happily. He had been told dozens of times that he was not, as they say, “college material,” but from what he could gather neither were any of the other 30,000 students. And if they were, and if the cross notes from the professors had any truth in them, then (a) it either took a long time to find the slobs, separate the wheat from the chaff or (b) any college worth its salt could tolerate a few ignoramuses or, as Herbie pictured himself, late-bloomers. He had planned on staying.

Once when he went home — it was Easter — he noticed that his father’s processes seemed to be slowing down. A visit home after being away for more than a month made it clear to him that his father was slowly dying. Things were stopping in him, like lights being switched off in different parts of a city as you watch from a hill.

When Herbie got the news that it was all over he stomped his new wastebasket flat. Then he went home, rented a black suit, went to his father’s funeral, was consoled by some people he didn’t know, and before he knew it was back at college.

Almost as soon as he got off the bus after returning to college Herbie had trouble calling up the image of his father’s face. He wished that his father had had a craggy face, an awful grin or a bald head, if only to remember him by. But Herbie could not remember what his father looked like. His father had no evidence of his having passed through and on, no evidence except some unpaid bills in the bottom bureau drawer and a bowling ball in the closet with undersized finger holes. It was his father’s pride and joy. He had it specially made for his small hands. Mrs. Gneiss discovered to her horror that, because of the holes, it was nearly unpawnable.

Fearing the worst, death by starvation, Mrs. Gneiss ate everything there was to eat in the house the evening Mr. Gneiss died. For a month this went on. She ran up bills and stocked the house with food, bought more and ran up more bills. Any hour of the day Mrs. Gneiss could be seen in front of the television set licking her fingers.

One day Herbie got the letter he had been expecting:

Dear Herbert,

I think it’s finally coming. Death, I mean. But that’s okay. You go on with your studies and you study hard like you always meant to and someday you’ll know what it’s like to be a parent who is dying and has only a few moments to live (I wonder if I’ll even have time to sign this letter?????). You be an awfully good boy and “brace up” and remember to send your kids to college like I worked and slaved to. Teach them never to be “ungrateful” and “smart-alecky” and not to smoke in bed. I better stop now because my eyes are all sandy and tearing from crying and I need more light. Guess this is it. Oops, another pain. In the chest this time. Hope you’re getting all “A’s” in all your subjects. Guess this is “Goodbye” like they say. If you need anything just ask for it. I’ll be glad to do anything you want for you. You only have to ask, I’m always here.

So long from,

Your Sick “Mom”

He left the next day. When he arrived home his mother met him on the porch. She greeted him with a heavy and prolonged belch. She thumped her chest and reminded Herbie that that’s where the pains were. Right (urp) there.

“Hello, Ma.”

“I’m dying, Herbie.”

“I know.”

“This time it’s for real.”

“I got your letter.”

Mrs. Gneiss returned to where she had been sitting. A bowl of ice cream, half-full, rested on the coffee table. Nearby there was a bag of potato chips. Mrs. Gneiss cradled the bowl in her lap and picked up the potato chip bag and placed it next to her on the sofa. Then she dunked a potato chip into the ice cream, scooped up some ice cream and tossed the whole mess into her mouth. She licked and chewed and waited for Herbie to speak.

Herbie couldn’t think of anything to say.

“A mother’s got rights,” Mrs. Gneiss said thickly. Her next potato chip scoop broke under the strain of so much ice cream. “What ever happened to those man-sized chips?” she asked, glancing around the room.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You see any?”

“Any what?”

“Man-sized chips for the ice-cream dip.”

Herbie stood up and went to the far corner of the room. Then, at a safe distance, he shouted: “Look, I don’t mind getting your lousy letters and I don’t mind coming back to this stinking house, but I do mind leaving college for good, moving out of the dorm, selling my bike. .”

“Your gorgeous bike,” Herbie’s mother mocked.

“. . I said to myself, What’s a semester? I said to myself. .”

“You’re going to give your mother a semester to die in?”

“. . I thought you were lonely. I thought you needed someone around the house. I thought you were in trouble, sick or something. .”

“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.

2

Mr. Gibbon was a fuddy-duddy, not a geezer, but he was old, chewed his lips, dressed horribly and so often he was taken for a geezer. He lived in Miss Ball’s house on the second floor.

He had few possessions. Each possession had a special significance. There was his comb. It was part of a comb, about five plastic teeth at various distances apart on a bitten spine. Mr. Gibbon had used that same comb since boot camp. It was the last thing his aunt gave him. In fact, it was the last thing his aunt gave anybody, since she died on the railroad platform waving goodbye to the seventeen-year-old Charlie Gibbon as his train pulled away bound for New Jersey. So the comb was special. He used the comb often. The strange and even sick part of it all was that he used it without a mirror. He would stand, one arm crooked over his head; his eyes on an object so distant that it had no name, and he would scrape away at his scalp with those five plastic teeth.

Like most old men he wore his watch to bed. He had forgotten the last time it was off his wrist. But he remembered distinctly the time he got it, a bargain at the Fort Sam Baker PX in Missouri, two dollars and sixty cents. It was a huge watch and ticked very loudly. The chrome had flaked off and revealed brass underneath. The watch was so big that even Mr. Gibbon could wind it. And Mr. Gibbon had very thick fingers.

Mr. Gibbon’s other valuable possessions were his.45 caliber pistol (he had killed a man with it, he said), his canteen with the bullet hole through the side (it had foiled the killing of Mr. Gibbon), a picture of his wife and two daughters in a bamboo frame he had bought somewhere near the equator somewhere on an island somewhere, also his army discharge papers, his khakis, his clips of bullets, his hunting knife (“A man should own enough knife to protect himself with,” he said), his neatly made bed, his paper bags and his tennis shoes.

Of these last two items the bags were the most important; the tennis shoes were more of a sentimental thing. Mr. Gibbon made it a practice to carry paper bags wherever he went, wrinkled brown-paper bags. It was hard to tell what was in the bags since they were not bulky enough to show the outlines of any distinguishable object. Even if they did contain a large object they were wrinkled enough to conceal the object’s identity. Often the paper bags contained nothing more than many carefully folded paper bags. Mr. Gibbon enjoyed the stares of people who were perplexed by a particularly huge brown-paper bag he had carried into town one day. He did not take the bus that day. Instead he walked all the way home, past all the eyes of most of his neighbors. What was in the bag? More bags. Mr. Gibbon smiled and tucked his secret under his arm. Many times he hailed and hooted a good morning to another old man merely because the other man was also carrying a bag. He imagined a fraternity of old men carrying armloads of wrinkled bags. He saw them all the time.

The tennis shoes replaced his army boots, which he saved for special occasions (riding in a car, resting, cleaning his pistol). They were black basketball sneakers — the kind that a high school student wears after school. The canvas was black, the rubber was white. In spite of the thick rubber soles they added no spring to his step. He walked along the sidewalk with a pflap-pflip-pflap-pflip of the canvas and rubber, the long lacings trailing several inches behind. Over the anklebone there was a round label which read:

OFFICIAL TENNIES

“The Choice of Major Leaguers!”

He wore no socks. Usually his trousers were baggy and long enough to conceal the fact, but sometimes his white ankle flesh could be seen over the black tennis shoes as he walked along the sidewalk looking very much like a little wooden man marching down a plank, weaving from side to side.

What nearly everyone noticed first about Mr. Gibbon were his eyes. They were cloudy, pearly and ill-looking. It was his eyes that got him discharged from the army and not the fact that he was at retirement age. He had changed his age several times on his file card to make absolutely sure that he would die in the army. There was no way to disperse the fog in his eyes. He could see all right, his eyes were “damn good” and he had never been sick a day in his life. Yet his eyes looked wrong. They were the wrong color. Indeed, there seemed to be something seriously wrong with those eyes. They were the color of nonfat milk.

Mr. Gibbon’s nose was sharp, as was his chin and the ridge of his head where the skull sutures pushed against the skin. His neck was a collection of wattles, folds and very thin wrinkles. The base of his neck seemed small, bird-like, as if it had been choked thin by a tight collar for many years.

And his mouth. “I’ve got fifteen teeth,” Mr. Gibbon was fond of saying. The teeth were not visible. They were somewhere within the shapeless lips, which stretched and chewed even when Mr. Gibbon was not eating. It was the kind of mouth that caused people to think that he was a nasty man.

From the rear he looked like nearly every other man his age. His head was wide at the top, not a dome, but a wedge. The back of his skinny neck was an old unhappy face of wrinkles. There was even a wrinkle the size of a small mouth, frowning from the back of Mr. Gibbon’s neck. His ears stuck out, his shoulders were bony and rounded, his spine protruded. He was vaguely bucket-assed, but not so much bucket-like as edgy, a flat bottom that is known as starchy, as if it contained a large piece of cardboard.

“You can’t rile me,” Mr. Gibbon said. It was mostly true. He stayed calm most of the time, and when he was angry did not speak: instead he wheezed, he puffed, he blew, he sighed, he groaned. And maybe he would mumble an obscenity or two.

His favorite song was the National Anthem, and the less violins, the more brass, the better. An old song, he said, but a good solid one. You’d be proud to get up on your hind legs and be counted when it played — it was that kind of song, a patriotic song. “If you wanna name names, I’m a patriot,” said Mr. Gibbon. He liked the anonymity of citizenship and patriotism. He wanted to be in that great bunch of great people that listened, that saluted, that obeyed the country’s command whether at home or abroad, whether down at the pool hall or far afield, at work or at play. The song ran through him and charged his whole body and made it tingle. Mr. Gibbon wheezed and spat when he was angry, but he also wheezed and spat when he was emotionally involved; he got choked up. Something of a patriotic nature always brought rheum to his eyes: hearing the anthem, seeing the flag or his army buddies. Or just the thought of them.

He had resigned himself to being out of the army as much as he could. You couldn’t do it completely. He knew that. It was in the blood. It was something that wouldn’t leave you for all your born days. Something you wouldn’t want to leave even if it were possible. Something great and good. Something powerful.

It was a sad day when the army doctor took a last look at Mr. Gibbon’s cloudy eyes and said, “There’s something sick about them eyes. I don’t know what medical science would say, but I don’t like the looks of them. .”

That was all there was to it. In a few days Mr. Gibbon was out of the army. He had been in for thirty-eight years. “That’s a lifetime for some people, thirty-eight years,” he would say. And when he was feeling very low he would say, “That was my lifetime, thirty-eight years in Uncle Sam’s army. Just hanging on now for dear life, and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

Mr. Gibbon was smart enough to know that things were different in the army. Life was better, if not richer. There was good company, a nice bunch of kids. Raw kids, greenhorns, but they learned in the long run. They learned to pitch-in and fall-to. Life in the army was a constant reward. It was Mr. Gibbon’s first real haircut, grammar school, a trip to the zoo. For a man who had never had a youth that he remembered, and who could not remember whether (or not) he had passed through puberty, the army was a tremendously satisfying experience. Not really the romance of the recruiting poster, although there was more of that in it than people ordinarily thought. In the army you were someone, a man in khakis, a full-time threat to the enemy; Mr. Gibbon was “Pop” to a lot of young kids and a buddy to a lot of the others. Need a little advice on VD, a needle and thread, some notepaper, card tricks, funny stories? Want to know what the Jerries were really like? Ask Pop Gibbon.

Now he was out of the army and it pained. Maybe it was the weather, but the weather had never caused him to pain before. Pain in his back, his neck, his finger joints. Or his clothes were damp. His clothes had never been damp before. And when he did not pain he felt sticky, or maybe one of his teeth would be giving him a time. In the army he never had a sick day, although the Doc and others examined his eyes now and then and prescribed “rest, lots and lots of rest for them eyes,” or “try a little epsom salts, Charlie, bathe them and then get some rest, lots of. .” Worse than all the civilian aches and pains was the one thought that occurred to him over and over again, the thought which zipped into his mind one morning and which stayed there, for good it seemed. Mr. Gibbon had been on his way to take a bath and did not feel a need to take the precaution of wearing a robe (besides, nakedness always reminded Mr. Gibbon pleasantly of the army). He was padding along the hall placidly, with a towel over his arm and his comb in his hand, and wearing his tennis shoes for slippers, and he passed one of the bedrooms and caught a glimpse of someone moving. He stopped and peeked through the door. He was right. In the full-length mirror he saw an old man, almost totally bald, carrying a broken comb and a tattered towel and wearing a suit of shrivelled fat.

It brought Mr. Gibbon up short. He tried to cover himself with the towel, but to no avail. The towel was too small and too shredded. Mr. Gibbon spilled over into the mirror. When he turned away from the mirror he got the most revolting view of all, a rear view, dying flesh retreating, and it was not starchy at all. It was just awful.

He could not forget the old man in the fat suit walking stupidly, awkwardly away from the full-length mirror. It had not been like that in the army. He had been a big strong man in the army. The army had promised to train Mr. Gibbon. They had kept their promise. They had trained him to check the firing pins on various large caliber shells; they had trained him to cook boiled cabbage and greens for upwards of three hundred hungry, dog-faced foot soldiers; they taught him to weld canteens, shout marching orders, cure rot, detect clap, and execute a nearly perfect about-face. These trades had kept Mr. Gibbon wise, his muscles in tune. In his thirty-eight army years Mr. Gibbon learned many trades up and down.

When he was discharged he found that army trades were not exactly civilian trades, although there were some similarities.

At first Mr. Gibbon did not try to get a job, but as he said, he had always been “on the go.” It was the army’s way to be always on the go. So twiddling his thumbs did not appeal to him. He was not a man of leisure. He took pride in making and doing a little each day. He had some money and a little pension, but it was not a question of money. Raising chickens was out, so was drinking coffee with unshaven men in the Automat, watching people go by, remembering number plates, spotting cars and playing cards. Mr. Gibbon was a little foolish, but he was not stupid and, perhaps worst of all, he had not yet been blessed with the time-consuming affliction of senility. He was in the still-awake period of dusk, which exists for old people in retirement between the last job and the first trembling signals of crotchety old age and near madness. Still lucid.

He could be useful. To himself and his country. But he was worried when he thought of his training; the army had trained him well, but what use is a firing-pin fixer, rot curer, cabbage boiler and canteen welder in the civilian world? What good? No good, Mr. Gibbon concluded. He took odd jobs at first, and even saw the humor in this. Gibbon, the taker of odd jobs. That’s what it had come to.

His first odd job was with the Municipal Council of Lower Holly, directing a road-fixing crew. But the workers would not be threatened with demerits and they did not have the respect (and fear) that recruits generally had for Mr. Gibbon. If Mr. Gibbon gave an order they paused, shuffled their feet, and from the middle of the group of workers another order would be shouted back: “Go back to the old folks’ home, Grandpa!” Once a man told him to go suck his thumb.

His next jobs were as an usher at the movies, a special policeman at the Holly Junction bathing beach and as a cabdriver on the late shift of the We-Drive-U-Kwik Cab Company. It was not long before Mr. Gibbon retired his flashlight and braided usher’s cap, his badge and night-stick. The odd job with the cab company bore some fruit, killed some time, and it even showed signs of speeding Mr. Gibbon right into his grave with no stopover at senility or madness.

It was his third week on the job that finished him. The week of the teeth. Mr. Gibbon had just gotten an upper plate of new false teeth.

“New false teeth,” Mr. Gibbon had said to the dispatcher. “New false teeth. False and new. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

The cab dispatcher said that he had known a lot of people that had new false teeth. They liked them, the new false teeth. So why should Mr. Gibbon think they were so crazy?

“I didn’t say I thought they were crazy,” Mr. Gibbon corrected. “I said new false teeth sounded crazy. Like new used cars sounds crazy.”

The cab dispatcher did not see Mr. Gibbon’s point at all.

The teeth, both new and false, did not fit well. Or maybe it was Mr. Gibbon’s gums that did not fit. Whatever it was, it made his mouth sore, and Mr. Gibbon said he’d have to get his gums in shape before he could stand them a full day. It was toward the end of the third week that the accident happened. The teeth were resting on the seat beside Mr. Gibbon as he drove down Main Street late one night. Then he heard the familiar squawk from the sidewalk and whipped the cab over to the customer. The customer got in and sat on the front seat; Mr. Gibbon said, “Where to, Johnny?”

But when he said it he realized that his teeth were under the man. He reached for them. The man, far from indignant, took Mr. Gibbon’s arm and happily guided it. The two-way radio crackled. Mr. Gibbon gasped and struggled with the giggling man for full possession of his hand, his teeth, his wits. The car veered sharply and tore down the wrong lane of Holly Boulevard with the two reaching men, one grasping and wheezing, one delighted, in the front seat. The cab dispatcher back at the We-Drive-U-Kwik office listened to the wheezing and giggling. The cab dispatcher yelled into the microphone. Mr. Gibbon lunged for the radio. In doing so he lost control of the car completely and rammed a utility pole. Two voices — one from the radio, one from the seat next to him — sassed him, told him he was a useless old fool, a flop, and a tease.

The door slammed and the radio went dead. Mr. Gibbon left the We-Drive-U-Kwik Cab Company that same night. His sat-on teeth were broken, his pride had been toyed with, his age mocked once again, and for the first time in his life Mr. Gibbon had been chewed out. In a matter of minutes his job was taken from him. And it was a long time before he found another one.

Six months later Mr. Gibbon became a quality control inspector in the military department of the Kant-Brake Toy Factory. And, like all the other workers in the same department, he wore a uniform showing his rank and months of service. Medals were given for safety, punctuality, and high bowling scores. Mr. Gibbon was in heaven.

It was the logical place to go, but somehow the thought had not even occurred to Mr. Gibbon. Why not a toy factory? It was the only place outside of the army itself that made murderous weapons a speciality. Kant-Brake manufactured soldiers, millions of planes, gunboats, bombers, bullets, sub-machine guns, tents, tanks, Jeeps, and even little officer’s quarters right down, as the catalogue said, “to the geraniums on the general’s lawn.” Every weapon of war, murder, spying or sabotage could be found under the Kant-Brake roof. Some designs, which were under construction, had only just appeared on the drawing boards in the Pentagon. The Kant-Brake Company bragged that it turned out more planes, more ships, and more tanks “than all the world’s man-sized factories put together!” They made a nuclear sub that could fire sixteen high-powered missiles. The missiles alone that appeared at Kant-Brake were so many that they were equal in number “to all the bombs dropped by both sides during World War II.”

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.

3

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?

“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.

4

“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.”

“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.

5

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?”

“Do they? I don’t know,” the sentry said coldly. “I never been in most toy factories. Just this one is all.”

“Just asking.”

“I heard you.”

“A toy factory with a guard,” Herbie said to himself, and started to shake his head and smile.

“You think it’s funny?”

“Yes,” said Herbie. “No.”

“Pretty funny for a wise guy, aren’t you?”

“You think so?” It came out in the wrong tone of voice: an unintentional, but very distinct, rasp.

“I think so.”

“I was thinking,” said Herbie. “With you standing there with that loaded gun, waving it at people like me and getting mad. .” Herbie’s voice trailed off, then started up again. “I was thinking, someone might get hurt. . ”

“Like you.”

Herbie nodded. “Like me. Exactly.”

“I got a job to do.”

“That’s what I was saying. A toy factory with a guard.”

“I’d shoot you down as look at you. I used to tow targets.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“I seen action. Lots of it.”

Herbie noticed that although the sentry’s body was faced in his direction and the sentry’s rifle was still pointed in the general area of Herbie’s chest, the sentry’s eyes were glazed, his mind was somewhere else. Perhaps on some of the action he had seen.

“Damn right,” said the sentry. “Plug you right there, if I had a mind to. I plugged lots of guys before. Wise guys, just like you, mostly. We had more trouble with the wise guys than the Jerries. So we plugged the wise guys. It was war. You can’t have wise guys in a war, or smart alecks either. I plugged my best friend. He used to wise around the place all the time. Had to give him the payoff. Sure, I hated to do it — he was my buddy, but that’s the way you lose wars. The wise guys lose them for you.”

Herbie looked at the rifle riding up and down his torso. It had one eye.

“I got my orders. I wouldn’t care. I’d just shoot!” The last word flew out angrily with a fine spray of spit.

Herbie backed toward the gate and the safety of the sidewalk. The guard still aimed his rifle where Herbie had been. Just as Herbie was thinking seriously about running back to Miss Ball’s house Mr. Gibbon appeared.

“You been cleared,” he shouted to Herbie. “It’s okay, Skeeter. He’s been cleared by the old man.”

Skeeter, the sentry, wheeled around and jerked his rifle at the sky. Both Mr. Gibbon and Herbie flattened themselves on the driveway. Herbie waited for the explosion, numbness, death. But there was no explosion.

“I woulda shot,” said Skeeter, the sentry.

“I don’t blame you,” said Mr. Gibbon. He understood security.

Herbie said nothing.

Mr. Gibbon took Herbie to the main office and said, “You’re on your own now, sojer.”

On the door to the main office was a plaque which read, gen’l digby soulless, united states army (ret’d.).

“Come in!” bellowed a voice from inside.

Herbie nodded to the bellow and went into the office of the retired general. Inside, he said good morning and started to sit down in a large chair.

“Don’t bother to sit down,” said the man. He was, like Skeeter at the gate, wearing a fancy uniform. Very authentic-looking. “You won’t be here long.”

Herbie remembered the letter. He pulled it out and handed it across the desk.

The man with the fancy uniform read the letter quickly, then looked up. “So,” he said. He fixed his eyes on Herbie, wet his lips, and began to croak affectionately. He had known Herbie’s father damn well, about as well as one person can know another one. At least, the man qualified, these days. They had bowled together, had dime-beers together, grabbed ass together and been in tools together. Oh, it was all right in tools with the elder Gneiss, but he — after his retirement from the army — had moved up the ladder and built Kant-Brake from willing men and muscle, real pioneers, men with dreams and a lot of dough. Herbie’s father had gotten married and stayed in tools. General Soulless couldn’t stand tools himself. That is, tools as tools. He wanted to make something useful. He had a dream, too, if that didn’t sound like bullshit. He went into war toys.

But he still had a hell of a lot of respect for Herbie’s old man. They had done a lot of things together when they were young. He could write a book about all those crazy adventures. He could write twenty books. How they used to go swimming in the raw, fishing in the lake. Times had changed, but he still couldn’t forget Herbie’s father, a scrappier little guy there never was.

Herbie stood on one leg and then on the other. He agreed that his father certainly was a scrappy little guy. Herbie said that, of course, was before he was his father.

The man laughed. “I’ll say!” he croaked. “You scrappy like your dad?”

“I guess so,” said Herbie, “yes.” But all that Herbie could remember about his scrappy old dad was the large bowling ball with the undersized finger holes.

“Them were the days,” the man said. He went on. He could — no he should—write a book about those days. It’d be a goddamned funny book, too. He said that some day he would write it. A big fat book. He’d put everything in it that had ever happened to Herbie’s scrappy dad and him. All the roughnecks and shitheads, all the skinny girls with flat chests and freckles, and that hungry rougey old bag they met one night. Did Herbie know about that? Probably not. But the retired general wouldn’t leave out a single word. He’d get it all down on paper when he had the chance. It wouldn’t be any sissy novel either. It would be a big lusty novel, sad sometimes, with all a kid’s important memories of growing up. The way kids see things, since kids really knew what was going on. That’s why the retired general was in that business, he said. He liked kids.

Herbie wished the man luck with the novel. Then for no reason at all he thought of his mother. There was a novel, or maybe a folk opera: jazzy tunes, honky-tonk, the swish of brushes on drums as his mother gobbles sadly in front of the TV, a blue tube lighting up her bowls of ice cream. And then, mountainous, glutinous, and jiggling with the rhythm of the tunes, she slides out of the house, down the street to the brink of her open grave and then flops ever so quietly into it.

“So you want a job, eh?”

“Yessir.”

“Like the place?”

“Very much.”

“It’s not just any old toy factory, y’understan’,” said the man. “We got style — that’s what counts nowadays. I mean, saleswise. You can’t fool kids. Kids are the darnedest little critics of things. They know when you’re putting the screws to them.”

“Sure do,” said Herbie.

The man continued. Kids were funny. They knew what they wanted, a certain color, size, shape, etc. They got books out of the library and studied about war and crap. They knew what was going on. If the retired general had his way he’d hire young kids, real young, impressionable, scrappy little bastards, instead of old men. But he’d get arrested, wouldn’t he?

After saying this, the man laboriously got up out of his chair, walked around the desk to Herbie, and then skidded his fist over Herbie’s chin in what was meant as a playful gesture of affection that old men become incapable of and, often, arrested for. The man went back to his chair heavily and repeated that he liked kids a lot.

Herbie said that if it weren’t for kids where would they be? Then he thought of what he said and licked his lips.

Just the same, the man agreed.

Herbie said that he was absolutely right.

“You’re a lot like your old man.” The man wiped his mouth with a chevroned sleeve.

Herbie tried to look as scrappy as possible. He looked at the twenty dollars’ worth of ribbons and string on the retired general’s chest. He tried to forget that his father was a runt and hoped that the retired general would forget it too.

“You got yourself a job, son.”

The man then introduced himself as General Digby Soulless, Retired, and took Herbie down into the workshops. Herbie would be in the motor pool with Mr. Gibbon. Herbie would have to know the ropes. He was issued a uniform, shoes, and a rucksack. He put on the uniform and worked for the rest of the day in silence. The rest of the men were good to him, told him dirty jokes and took him into their confidence. They saw that the old man himself had brought Herbie down and introduced him. So this is the army, Herbie thought throughout the day. At the end of the day Herbie went out through the main gate with the rest of the men. And when Skeeter, the sentry, saw Herbie approaching in uniform, he saluted grandly and nearly dropped his rifle.

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 husband?” 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.”

Throughout the night Herbie was awakened by wheezing and groaning and the creaking of springs. That was that. He tried to prevent his mind from making a picture of it, but the more he tried the sharper the picture became. He switched on the radio to keep his mind off the noise in the next room. The news was on. The president had just had his kidney stone and gallbladder removed. The commentator said, “the stone had the appearance of an irregular gold nugget or arrowhead. The opened gallbladder was reddish brown and the greenish half-inch gallstone, which infected, was visible in the lower left fold near the cystic duct. . ” After this the president himself came on and said that he just had to get out of the hospital and do his work, even if it meant further infection. There was a war on and that had to be tended to.

With the radio buzzing about the movements of troops, Herbie went softly to sleep.

8

Mr. Gibbon became a frequent visitor to Herbie’s house.

Herbie stopped going home altogether. Instead, he went for walks around Mount Holly, met a girl and took her to bed. The first time they went to bed the girl said, “New, new, new!” which struck Herbie as odd. But they made love just the same. Afterward, when Herbie offered the girl a cigarette, she said simply, “New, thank you.” Like Herbie the girl had no plans, and Herbie had no plans for her.

Herbie’s mother became more hostile, but also less demanding. Herbie sent her less and less money each week. She did not mention this in her letters. Instead she sent more letters and started using phrases like, “Life is just beginning for me,” “a big new world is opening up,” “Charlie has taught me how to live and love,” “old people have feelings too,” “the sky’s the limit” and “dawn is breaking.” They were very uncharacteristic phrases. Mr. Gibbon had apparently kindled a flame inside his mother, Herbie thought.

Indeed, Mr. Gibbon had done just that. Mrs. Gneiss, Mr. Gibbon, and Miss Ball had started an outing club to get fresh air. They walked, brought cold lunches, ate devilled eggs, and listened to their transistor radio. Some color — not much, but some—came into Mrs. Gneiss’s face. It would be rash to say she had a ruddy complexion, but it certainly wasn’t chalky. It was lemony after a few picnics, and then it took on a slightly veined pinkish hue. The outings were doing her good. The walking increased her appetite, which Mr. Gibbon was now paying for. She gained weight, but the new bulk was not perceptible. Only other really fat people notice changes in a fat person. Mrs. Gneiss was not embarrassed by the added weight. She repeated that everything she ate turned to fat. There was no question that she was coming alive. She had started wearing dresses and muu-muus and had burned her tattered kimono. She took to walking and sweating. Firmness came into her hams and trotters just as color came into her jowls.

One Sunday the outing was held at the Mount Holly Botanical Gardens. Mr. Gibbon, as usual with map and compass, had led the way. They spread their blanket under a tree and ate, then turned on the radio and listened to news of the president’s kidneys and gallstones and negotiations with what Mr. Gibbon called “The Yellow Peril,” and then lolled about on the grass. The sky was filled with clouds that kept getting in the way of the sun. This irritated Mr. Gibbon. He said so. “Those clouds aggravate me,” was what he said. Lots of things galled him, he said, but life was still worth living. He said that he owed a great deal to Mrs. Gneiss. He had thought that his life was over, but Mrs. Gneiss had convinced him that he could move on. “If an old battle axe like me and an old biddy like you can fall in love,” he said, “then anything is possible.” He had wondered about this before. Now he knew it for sure.

“Charlie,” said Mrs. Gneiss, “you’re the sweetest man in the world.” Without pausing she added, “Pass the salad, Miss Ball.”

“Just because you’re a certain age,” said Miss Ball, passing the salad to Mrs. Gneiss, “doesn’t mean there’s anything you can’t do. Why, it should be easier when you’re old because you know more, but no one tries. That’s the fly in the ointment really.”

“Sure is,” said Mr. Gibbon. “Sure is. Why, look at us. Three folks with lots of spunk left.”

“Oodles of spunk left,” Miss Ball interjected. “Oodles.”

“And it’s all going to waste. We’re just wasting away,” said Mrs. Gneiss, her mouth dripping mayonnaise.

Mr. Gibbon smacked his lips in disgust. “That greenhorn doctor had the nerve to boot me out of the army. Why, I was old enough to be his father! If I had stayed in they wouldn’t be having so much trouble with their wars. Send me in! Give me fifteen men of my own choosing and we’ll blast all those yellow bastards to kingdom come! I been in three wars and I won all three. Give me another one, that’s what I say!”

“Oh Charlie, you’re a real campaigner,” said the delighted Mrs. Gneiss.

“Why not victory?” said Mr. Gibbon. “Just send me over!”

Miss Ball had been shaking her head. “I’m a Daughter of the American Revolution,” she said, “and I’ve seen a lot of our boys murdered in cold blood by the Communists. The real problem is right here in our midst: the You-Know-Whos. If we didn’t have so many of them — and they’re all as Red as they are black, as I’m sure you know — this country would be ours again and we could put a big fence around it. We could start life all over again in our own backyard. You don’t have to scurry all over the world with your planes and such to find the enemy. Not when he’s there, smack in Mount Holly, emptying your trash-can, shining your shoes, cleaning your car, grinning at you, lying in his teeth, taking food out of your mouth and money out of your pocket!”

“That’s it in a nut-cake!” said Mr. Gibbon, jumping to his feet. “The problem is right here. We can’t ignore it. And I say the best fertilizer for a piece of land is the footprints of its owner!”

Saying this Mr. Gibbon looked across the grass, past the bunches of flowers, through the trees to the clouds — those fickle things that kept getting themselves in the way of the sun. He frowned at the clouds as if the clouds represented everything foul, all the You-Know-Whos that kept trying to prevent decent folk from having sunny days.

“So we sit here blabbing about it,” said Mrs. Gneiss. “Why don’t we do something about it?”

“What can we do?” asked Mr. Gibbon. “Oh, I know. It’s coming all right. Hate and bitterness.”

“I hate bitterness,” said Miss Ball.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” said Mr. Gibbon, “if they were just shining your shoes and emptying your trash-cans. That wouldn’t be so bad. But did you ever see the beat of it when every You-Know-Who in the damn country decides to get uppity? You looked at any movies lately? They’re up there doing a soft-shoe with our womenfolk. Been in any drug stores the last year or two? There they are, sucking up Cokes. Been in a bank lately [“A bank!” Mrs. Gneiss gasped] — like that bank in town maybe? There they are, putting their crumby fingers over all the money. I tell you, it makes my blood boil! Why, I was in that bank cashing my pension check just the other day. Stood in line. There’s one behind the counter. Went to another counter. Another one in front of me and one in back. Complain, I says to myself. Do something. Decided to have a word in private with the manager. Waited in line outside his office. Finally went in. You guessed it! A coon in the chair! What could I do? I still haven’t cashed the damn pension check.”

“It’s too much,” said Miss Ball.

“Something should be done about it,” said Mr. Gibbon.

Miss Ball tapped Mr. Gibbon on the shoulder, narrowed her eyes and said, “Sonny, you can do anything you want if you just get the bee in your bonnet.”

They returned to Mount Holly to find Herbie slumped dejectedly in Miss Ball’s wing-chair. He was surprised to see his mother. He couldn’t remember having seen her out of the house for years. But he soon recaptured his dejection. There was a slip of yellow paper in his hand. A draft notice. Herbie was to report for his physical the next day. The country was at war.