Murder in Mount Holly by Paul Theroux

work.”
    â€œProbably,” said Miss Ball in the same tone of voice.
    The doctor asked Miss Ball if she thought he was a quack. “You think I’m a quack, don’t you?” he asked.
    â€œWho cares what I think. No one cares.”
    â€œI care, Miss Ball. I care a great deal what you think,” the doctor said softly.
    â€œAll right, I think you’re a quack,” said Miss Ball.
    The doctor bit his lip. He said he had been a doctor a long time. He had healed a lot of wounds, not all of them physical. He had seen a lot of people come and go.
    Things grow, Miss Ball thought. Things kept growing and there was little or nothing you could do to stop them. It was Mother Nature’s way of getting even with the human race. Everyone suffered. Nature liked ugliness and suffering. Nature wanted fat people and failed crops. Nature wouldn’t make you lovely and light. She would keep you fat and fertile. Fertile.
    Miss Ball leaned toward the doctor. She almost did not have to act scared. She was scared. But she acted scared just the same, and she shook her head from side to side and up and down, and she said very plainly, “Doctor, I want you to know I’m a very frightened person. I never get a wink of sleep any more.”
    The doctor reflected and was about to speak. But it was Miss Ball that spoke.
    â€œI think they’re growing back, and I want a warranty so they don’t.”
    When all the words reached the doctor he still did not seem to understand what Miss Ball was saying.
    â€œYou think what are growing back?”
    â€œMy things.”
    â€œYou mean your fallopian tubes?”
    â€œYes,” Miss Ball bit her lip, “those. And the other things you said you took out.”
    The doctor started to giggle.
    â€œYou think it’s funny!”
    The doctor could not answer.
    â€œYou think human suffering and worry is a big laugh!” Miss Ball began to cry, loudly at first, then worked it down to a whimper. Miss Ball sniffed and dabbed at her cheek with a lace hanky. “Cruel. You’re a cruel, cruel man.”
    The doctor apologized. He asked Miss Ball to explain what she meant by the warranty.
    After a little hesitation Miss Ball told the whole story. She talked about Mother Nature, about weeds that grew all night and were tall in the morning, about lungs and tonsils, about how she had seen Mother Nature kill her father, about her things—how they would be back as sure as shooting. The least the doctor could do was give her a warranty so they wouldn’t grow back. She finished with, “. . . I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for ages.”
    The doctor said nothing. He played with his lips for a few moments and stared at the far wall. When Miss Ball thought he was going to laugh once again she started to unfold her hanky. The doctor swiveled his chair back at her and said in a low voice, “I think I understand.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œI’ll do anything you say.”
    â€œI want you to warranty the operation.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” said the doctor. He took out a piece of paper and wrote on it.
    â€œMake it a five-year warranty, like my juicer. Five years is good enough. I’ll be satisfied.”
    â€œNo, I won’t hear of it, Miss Ball. I’ll give you a lifetime warranty for that operation of yours.”
    â€œ A lifetime warranty! Good God,” said Miss Ball. Her mouth hung open. She could not find the words to express her thanks. Just when he seemed about the biggest quack she had ever seen he reached into his skinny heart and came up with a lifetime warranty. It was almost too much to ask. “Golly,” she finally said, “that’s the nicest thing anyone ever did for me.”
    The doctor handed Miss Ball the piece of paper. He said he had done nothing. Miss Ball protested, and felt like throwing herself at his feet.
    On the way out of the office Miss