Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

Not long after the opening of school a SOLD sign was posted in the vacant lot. Except for this the lot appeared to be as public as ever. Weeks went by and whoever had bought the lot did not come around to inspect it, nor were there any complaints about the cave, so that after a while the sign seemed to belong and its significance was nearly forgotten. Dogs, cats, birds, mice, rabbits, butterflies, and insects shared it with the neighborhood children, and the weeds grew higher.

But one morning while Douglas was at school a tractor drove into the lot and promptly ripped off the roof of the cave. When he returned to the house at dinnertime he was very depressed. Bitterly he asked: “Why didn’t they let anybody know? At least we could have got our stuff out. The cigar box is gone. And Tipton’s harmonica and a lot other stuff.”

“I would like to have seen somebody’s face,” Mr. Bridge remarked, “when that cigar box was opened and a snake slithered out.”

“Good Heavens,” Mrs. Bridge said. “Were you keeping a snake?”

“We had some money and marbles and coupons and a Scout knife and a lot of other junk in there besides,” he said. “That dirty old guy on the tractor stole everything.”

“How do you know?” Mr. Bridge asked while testing the blade of the carving knife.

“It’s gone, isn’t it? Who else could have swiped it?”

“I’m afraid that argument won’t stand up in court.”

“You don’t care because you didn’t lose any stuff.”

“You are making a bit too much of this. How much money was in the box?”

“Over a dollar. And the Scout knife was worth plenty. And we had all those coupons and marbles. And there was a lucky chestnut and some more stuff, too.”

“Did you hunt for the box? That fellow driving the tractor may not have stolen it. He may not have known it was there.”

“It’s gone,” Douglas said with a grim face.

“Well, I do think he’s right,” Mrs. Bridge said. “They should have told the boys they were planning to start excavating.”

“Pass your mother’s plate,” Mr. Bridge said to Ruth, and then he continued: “Yes, it seems to me they should have, or could have. I don’t believe it would have been much trouble to make a few inquiries and find out where the boys lived.”

“Why don’t you sue them?” Carolyn asked her brother.

“You think it’s one big fat joke,” he said. “It’s not funny.”

“Listen to me, young man,” Mr. Bridge said. He paused for emphasis, the carving knife and the heavy silver fork poised above the roast. “In this life we lose a great many things. Many things that we love and cherish and hope to keep forever are taken from us without our permission. There are times when litigation is in order, but unfortunately no court of law has yet existed which is capable of restoring to us those properties which we consider genuinely valuable. What you and your companions lost today — or what may have been stolen from you — is altogether inconsequential.”

“Yuh, yuh, yuh,” Douglas muttered.

“Furthermore, I think it is high time you made a pronounced effort to speak the English language.”

“Okay, okay,” said Douglas.

“He’s found your gun,” said Mrs. Bridge one evening not long before Halloween.

Mr. Bridge had just gotten home. He was standing in front of the hall closet taking off his gloves.

“Why on earth he was poking around beneath the mattress I don’t know,” she continued, “but I walked into the bedroom this afternoon and there he was.”

“What did he say when you caught him?”

“Not a word.”

Mr. Bridge remained standing where he was when she had first spoken. He had meant to show the gun to Douglas some day and explain why it was kept under the mattress, but he had planned to wait until Douglas was much older.

“How did he know about it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion. I really wish you wouldn’t keep it there — it gives me the willies.”

“Somebody must have told him it was there.”

“Don’t look at me,” she replied.

“You must have mentioned it without realizing it.”

“I certainly have not. As far as I’m concerned it simply does not exist.”

“What was he doing with it?”

“Sitting on the window bench pointing it at different things. Apparently he didn’t hear me walk in.”

“Was it cocked?”

“Heavens. I wouldn’t know.”

“Did he have the cartridges?”

“I didn’t ask. I certainly hope not.”

“Didn’t you look?”

“It never occurred to me. I just told him to put it right back where he found it and that I was going to tell you about it as soon as you came home.”

Mr. Bridge took off his hat and slowly placed it on the closet shelf.

“I hardly think your gun is necessary,” she went on in an obviously rehearsed tone of voice. “There don’t appear to be any burglars in this neighborhood, and with the night watchman making the rounds I’m sure you’ll never have any use for it.”

“Ask Harriet to fix me a highball,” he said, and went upstairs to the bedroom, where he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and slipped his hand beneath the folded pajamas. He felt the two cardboard boxes. He took them out and opened them. The stubby little bullets had not been disturbed. They were tightly fitted together like tidbits of food, just as they had come from the factory. Evidently Douglas had not found them. He lifted one of the bullets out of the box with his fingernails, looked at it for a few seconds, and slid it back into place. He shut the boxes, put them under the pajamas, closed the dresser drawer, and went downstairs.

Mrs. Bridge was in the living room selecting some records to play on the phonograph. “You’ll speak to him, won’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “Where’s my highball?”

“Coming.”

“I need no more days like this,” he said, and sank into his chair with the evening paper but did not begin reading until Harriet brought him the drink.

After dinner he led Douglas to the bedroom, lifted a corner of the mattress, and picked up the pistol.

Douglas said, “I was only looking.”

“How did you know it was here?”

“I sort of knew.”

“Did one of your sisters tell you?”

“How would they know?” he asked contemptuously.

“They sometimes help Harriet make the beds.”

Douglas did not say anything.

“Well?”

“I forget.”

“I am not satisfied with that answer. How long have you known about this gun?”

“A couple of years, I guess.”

Mr. Bridge lowered the gun in astonishment. “Did Harriet show it to you?”

Douglas clamped his mouth shut.

“So!” Mr. Bridge murmured. “So! And what else has she shown you?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the bullets?”

“Have you got some?”

“Now, I want you to understand me. This thing I am holding is not a toy. This is not to be played with. Ever. Is that clear? Do you understand me? This weapon is extremely dangerous. You are not to touch it. You have your own room. I do not want you poking around in here.”

“Okay,” Douglas said, and hitched up his belt.

“You are to promise me.”

“Holy smoke, okay. I promise. I was just looking at it for a couple of minutes. You act like I was going to rob a bank or something.”

“If you were to fire this gun and hit somebody I would be in a great deal of trouble.”

“Yeah, but how about me? If I knock some guy off they’ll take it out on me more than you.”

Mr. Bridge gestured impatiently. “You are not to touch this pistol without my permission. Is that clear?”