Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“I already promised.”

“All right. Now I am going to show you where the bullets are, so there will be no reason for you to be curious. And no reason for you to come rooting around in here again.” He walked to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pointed. “Under these pajamas,” he said. He lifted them so that Douglas could see the two boxes. “Do you want to look at them?”

Douglas sucked in his breath and nodded. Mr. Bridge opened one of the boxes, pulled out a bullet, and handed it to him.

“They sure are greasy,” he said after a few moments.

“The grease prevents corrosion.”

Douglas continued to examine the bullet.

“Look at it as long as you like, because I do not want you coming in here again unless I am with you.”

“If I ask first, can I look at them and the gun again?”

“If you ask. Under no other circumstances. Furthermore, you are not to tell your friends about this. I want that understood.”

“I won’t tell.”

“All right. Now, have you any questions?”

“How come you got it?”

“It was issued to me while I was serving in the Army.”

“How many Germans did you get with it?”

“I have never fired this gun except during target practice.” He could see that Douglas was puzzled. “Few men in military service engage in actual combat. The majority are kept busy providing food and clothing and ammunition and any number of other things for the few who are unfortunate enough to be assigned to the trenches. Let me put it this way: the Army functions like a timber company which requires the services of a great many people doing office work so that a relatively few men may go into the forest to chop down trees.”

“Is that all you did?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Then how come you got a gun?”

“I have wondered about that myself many times. As I say, it was issued to me along with quite a number of things for which I had no subsequent use.”

“Did everybody get issued one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you shoot even one German?”

“No, thank the Lord. The only Germans I saw were prisoners.”

“I thought you fought in the war. I told Vandermeer and Tipton you killed a lot of Germans.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Douglas was silent for a while. Then he said, “It’s okay.”

“I could show you some souvenirs of the war.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” Mr. Bridge said, raising his eyebrows, “I’d just have to think about it. Yes, sir, I’d just have to try to remember what I have in my trunk.”

“That brown wood one with AEF on top?”

“That’s the one. I brought back quite a number of souvenirs. But of course I don’t know whether or not you’re interested. However, if you are, I suspect I might be able to find a trench knife, and I might even be able to find some bayonets. Then there might be some Iron Crosses, and some pictures of the men in my unit, and — let’s see now, what else? We just might find a German officer’s helmet with a metal spike on top, and my old khaki uniform with the puttees. Have you ever seen puttees? Those were something! Trying to wrap those puttees around your legs when you were in a hurry.”

“What kind of bayonets?”

“All kinds. French. German. American. The French bayonet still has traces of blood in the grooves.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I bought it from a French poilu.”

“Can we look now?”

“No, no! Not now,” Mr. Bridge said, laughing.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t feel like opening my trunk right now. Those things will keep. I’ll show them to you some day, because you’ve promised me you are not going to touch this pistol again. Are we clear about that?” And when Douglas nodded he went on, “Very well. Now I’m going to replace this exactly where it was. It will always be here. At some future date, when you are a grown man, it will belong to you.”

“To keep?”

“To keep. But guns are not meant for boys.”

“You don’t need to tell me five hundred times.”

“I want to make sure there is no confusion about this. I do not want any possible misunderstanding about this. I assume Harriet found the gun while she was changing the sheets, but she had no business showing it to you. I am going to speak to her about it. In the meantime, there is no sense mentioning this to your sisters.”

“Don’t worry,” Douglas said. “They wouldn’t know which end the bullets come out of.”

“You aren’t to touch these cartridges again.”

“I heard you the first time. I’m not going to touch them with a ten-foot pole.”

“All right. We understand one another.”

“When are you going to show me what’s in the trunk?”

“That depends on your behavior,” Mr. Bridge said.

He lifted a corner of the mattress and laid the gun on the springs while his son watched attentively.

A sergeant at the Sixty-third Street police station telephoned to say they were holding Douglas. Mrs. Bridge, who had answered the telephone, gasped “Oh, my word!” and hurried into the living room where her husband was stretched out on the sofa listening to Nelson Eddy sing “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life.” She knew how much he enjoyed Nelson Eddy and she did not want to interrupt. He was awake, she knew, but his eyes were shut and he was going to be annoyed. Grasping her beads, she leaned over and said, “Walter?”

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. He had been irritated by the ringing telephone and he could not help feeling annoyed with her too, although she would not have interrupted unless the call was important.

Mrs. Bridge, hopeful that he might be able to hear what she was saying and listen to Nelson Eddy at the same time, said in a subdued voice: “The police.” Then she straightened up doubtfully.

He glared at her because he could not understand. He had been dozing, and he was not sure he had heard what he thought he heard. But then he remembered that it was Halloween.

In the breakfast room he picked up the telephone and said “Yes?” and heard just about what he expected to hear. “All right,” he said when the sergeant finished, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Mrs. Bridge had followed him and stood by anxiously. She said, “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“That unholy trio,” he said. “I should have guessed.”

“Oh, goodness, not again!” She knew he was referring to Douglas and his friends Rodney Vandermeer and Bobby Tipton.

“They turned over a can of garbage on Mr. Knapp’s porch.”

“Not really!”

“I am afraid it is all quite real,” he answered more sarcastically than he intended. He was still annoyed that the music had been interrupted; he looked forward to Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald each week at this time. Now the evening had been ruined.

“Shall I come along?”

“No. I’ll take care of it,” he said, and went to the hall closet to get his hat and coat.

Het Vandermeer was already at the station. The father of the Tipton boy, whom Mr. Bridge did not know, arrived a few minutes later. The victim, Mr. Knapp, was also there. They listened to the sergeant; they listened to Mr. Knapp; and finally it was agreed that no charges would be lodged if the boys apologized and cleaned up the garbage by seven o’clock the next morning.

On the way home Douglas said moodily, “I guess I better get up about five.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” said Mr. Bridge.

Neither of them spoke again. The night was cold and windy. Clouds were scudding across the moon. Dead leaves fluttered out of the darkness like moths and clung to the windshield of the Chrysler for an instant before disappearing. Douglas turned up the collar of his jacket.