Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“It sure is funny you never see them,” Carolyn said. “I looked, only I couldn’t find any.”

A few minutes later Mrs. Bridge remarked, “Don’t you wonder how many there might be in that old elm? Suppose we guess.”

Mr. Bridge discovered that he could not read any more, though he continued holding the paper. He listened to his daughters and his wife and he observed his son, but he no longer understood what was being said; as he listened to their voices and to the seasonal music of the insects the problems which had troubled him during the day did not seem important, and he reflected that he had practically everything he ever wanted.

It happened one warm Sunday afternoon while he was on his hands and knees in the yard with a can of poison. She came out of the house to watch, at least he assumed she had come out to watch his progress in the unending battle against the snails. For about ten minutes she stood around saying nothing, plucking nervously at her necklace. Then all at once she cried in a voice he had never heard before: “What people say about you is true!” Mr. Bridge reared up on his knees and gazed at his wife in amazement. He thought she had gone out of her mind. Her face was pale. She breathed noisily. She was furious about something, there was no mistaking the fact.

“Walter,” she said, making an obvious effort to control herself, “I insist on a divorce. Right now. At once. Do you understand?” Before he could answer, she stamped her foot and rushed into the house.

He put down the snail poison carefully so it would not tip over and destroy the new grass. Then he stood up, brushed off his trousers, and followed her. She had gone upstairs. She was in the bedroom. The door was locked. He tapped at the door but there was no response, so he went downstairs to the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. After this many years of marriage she had gone berserk. He sat down at the kitchen table to drink the beer and consider what he should do next, when he realized that she was glaring at him from the pantry.

“I thought as much,” she cried in a soft, fierce voice. “You’ve never cared about me. Just look at you! Look at yourself! Drinking beer!”

“Now for Heaven’s sake, India,” he said. “Stop acting ridiculous. You know perfectly well I care for you.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve never understood. Lois told me she had never seen a man so wrapped up in his own affairs. Half the time you don’t know if I’m dead or alive.”

“Why, that’s not true,” he said. “That simply is not true.”

“Go right ahead,” she remarked when she saw him glance at his beer, which was foaming pleasantly near the rim of the glass. “Go right ahead. I’m the last person on earth to spoil your pleasure. We can discuss the divorce after you’ve enjoyed yourself. I can wait. I don’t mind waiting. My life has been spent waiting on you and the children. None of you have been aware of it, but that’s all right. I realize you’ve written me off.”

He patted the chair next to him. “India, won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, I prefer to stand. Lois read my horoscope the other day. It says ‘Your emotional destiny is to lend courage, strength, truth, and tolerance to the world. Express your idealistic love nature fearlessly but sensibly so that you command respect as well as love from those dear to you.’ That doesn’t make the slightest difference to you; not that I expect it to, because you are completely wrapped up in your own affairs. The office, the office, the office, the office! I’m not blaming you, Walter. You are what you are. It scarcely matters if we see you only at the table. We can get along without you.”

However, she did sit down beside him, and when he put his arm around her she did not throw it off.

She never explained what he had done wrong, and after thinking quite a lot about this incomprehensible fit of hysteria he decided the best procedure was to ignore it.

“Mr. Bridge, is it not?”

A squat, bald Jew dressed in an expensive blue pinstripe suit skipped out of a doorway with an umbrella hooked over his arm. Mr. Bridge stopped walking and looked down at him suspiciously. The suit was an attempt at good taste, but it failed because it was obvious. He carried a copy of the Wall Street Journal but he held it so that it could be noticed. On his plump, pink, manicured little finger sparkled a diamond ring. Mr. Bridge looked again at the umbrella. There was no reason to be carrying an umbrella. The sun was shining, no rain had been forecast. This man was not to be trusted. Whatever his business, he was shallowly successful, and the business probably was marginal. He had the air of a slum lord. He could be a political lobbyist or a North End liquor wholesaler. He might be an osteopath or a cut-rate dentist. He was not a corporation executive or a reputable businessman. Whatever he did, he was not to be trusted. He was shrewd. He was repugnant. He was an opportunist. Under no circumstances should he be trusted, no matter what he said or did or suggested. He had stepped suddenly out of nowhere, wanting something, because that was the sort he was. He thought himself urbane and thought he had stepped away from his heritage as nimbly as he had skipped out of a doorway; whereas in fact everything he did, everything he wore or carried, and each affectation, revealed his nature, his background, and his ideals. His manner and his education had been picked up like pennies on the sidewalk. This was a man who had not seen the inside of a university because his parents lacked the means, and he had neither forgotten this nor forgiven his parents their poverty. Possibly he had made money, but he was not nouveau , no matter how many diamonds he had collected; this man’s goal in life was to emulate the newly rich.

So, without a smile, Mr. Bridge inspected him.

And the ingratiating voice responded: “Rheingold is the name, Mr. Bridge. Avrum Rheingold.” He was offering his card. MIMM, ZACK & RHEINGOLD. Stocks and bonds. Then he was offering to shake hands.

Mr. Bridge was about to return the card and decline the extended hand, but Avrum Rheingold was alert.

“We have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bridge, the great psychiatrist Dr. Alexis Sauer. Am I wrong to think you are joining him for lunch today at the Hotel Muehlebach?”

As a courtesy Mr. Bridge slipped the card into his pocket. And because the hand was still there like an object in a dream he accepted that, too. The hand was moist and fleshy, as he expected. It curled affectionately around his own. He could hardly restrain a shudder. It occurred to him that Rheingold’s hand felt like the tongue of a cow, and again he had to control a shudder. The hand was almost licking him. He heard the broker praising Alex Sauer in the most egregious terms. The flattery was intolerable. He withdrew his hand, which came away stickily. He wanted to wash it. His hand felt moist and unhealthy, as if during those few seconds it had become infected.

“What this man has done for my wife you would not believe. You would not believe a word, Mr. Bridge, I’m telling the truth. He is a genius. A marvel. A wonder-worker. My wife is not the same woman. Such skill. It’s my great privilege to counsel him on financial matters.”

Mr. Bridge glanced at his watch.

“I know how busy you are,” said Avrum Rheingold. “To a man like yourself minutes are jewels. I could not resist the opportunity to shake hands. You have been pointed out to me, Mr. Bridge. I noticed you at once. Everybody does. Who wouldn’t? In a crowd you are the first person everybody sees. Why is that? It’s a gift, Mr. Bridge. A gift of the gods. Plus hard work. It shows. You are a man among men, like your dear friend Dr. Sauer. I have observed you together and said to myself sincerely ‘Avrum, this is a rare and beautiful sight. A great legal mind, a great psychiatrist.’ I don’t hesitate to say this, because everybody knows it’s the truth. I’m detaining you. I know how a man like yourself extracts life from each minute. It’s my good fortune to make your acquaintance. Please call me Avrum. It’s noon. You are on your way to the Muehlebach. I have a small favor to ask. Be kind enough to offer my respects to Dr. Sauer, the savior of my wife. Such a man. Believe me, you should have seen my wife two years ago.”