“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.”