Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

A copy of the will was in the safe-deposit box, and though he knew every word of it he sometimes read it through, searching for possible points of contention. The logic and clarity of the will were pleasing to him; the measured cadence of the sentences he had composed was reassuring, as though the measure of his mind must be respected when it was read aloud at some future date. Often he read to himself particular passages from the will, imagining the delight and surprise with which it would be heard for the first time by his wife and by the children, not merely for the precision of language but because they had no idea of the value of the investments.

Only once had he shown her the contents of the box. Then he had pointed out an envelope containing five one-hundred-dollar bills to be used in case of emergency, and had unfolded a few certificates and gone over them with her so they would seem familiar; but he had minimized the total worth of the documents in the box. Women tended to behave curiously where money was concerned. She was not extravagant, at least she had not been extravagant so far; if anything she was quite the opposite, worrying mildly about the cost of almost everything. Still, change was in the nature of women and no good could come of letting her know his exact worth.

The fact that she knew so little about these securities apparently did not trouble her; since that day she had never inquired, or hinted, or shown the faintest sign of wanting more information. He was puzzled by this. He had expected her to ask a great many questions, but she had merely looked attentive. He suspected she had not understood everything he attempted to explain; he remembered her perfunctory smile and how she nodded each time he paused. But at least she did know of the existence of the box and she knew what was in it.

The children had not yet been informed, although he meant to show them, one at a time, as they grew older. It pleased him to anticipate the time when he could go over all of the securities with the children, pointing out what he had paid for each and comparing this price with the current market value.

So he meditated as he unfolded his certificates, absently gratified by the parchment quality of the paper, and checked them against the notations to make certain everything was in order, and studied the earnings reports, the forecasts, and the dividend news reported in the Journal . Sometimes he would read a market letter or a corporation analysis which he had brought along in his briefcase; but more often he spent these tranquil moments in the basement of the bank examining the handsomely engraved certificates and contemplating the satisfaction they would give after his death.

He seldom spoke to his wife about what went on at the office or in court. Before they were married and for a while afterward she had inquired, doing her best to appear interested, trying to comprehend the life he lived apart from her; but he had answered briefly because he knew she did not really care, so that as time went by she asked less and less, and now it had been reduced to a ritual like a fragment excerpted from a play. She would greet him at the door, glance at the briefcase, and put on an expression of dismay or resignation, saying, “Now truthfully, Walter, couldn’t whatever it is wait till tomorrow?” By this she demonstrated her concern for his health and reminded him that he did not need to work such long hours for the family’s benefit. They had plenty of food, a nice house, and money enough to pay the bills. Then he would reply that he was only planning to work a little while after dinner or that he was going to finish a few things which should have been taken care of a week ago, or he might remark that it was Julia’s fault. Julia was to blame for saddling him like a burro with more than he could carry during the day. Then she answered that she was going to call Julia in the morning and tell her to cut down on the amount of work.

This familiar and lifeless scene was not as unnatural as it appeared; after all, he himself did not care what happened at the house during the day. There was no more reason for her to be curious about his work than for him to be concerned with groceries, laundry, getting the children to school, and whatever else she did. Yet it would seem rude, almost brutal, to drop the pretense and admit that neither particularly cared what the other was doing. A display of interest, however shallow, made life easier.

Julia, on the other hand, did not need to pretend. She cared vitally about the progress of each case, and about such things as the rumor that a new federal courthouse might be built; and as the years went by he found that he was discussing these matters as intimately with Julia as he had once imagined he would discuss them with his wife. This, too, he reflected, must not be unnatural; no doubt other men had found themselves living a similarly divided life, involved with two women almost equally.

He was grateful that they got along well together. Julia was quite a pretty young woman, but so far his wife had shown no jealousy. Perhaps she sensed that he was not attracted to Julia, and occasionally he wondered why he was not. Julia’s features were regular and delicate and she had a charming smile. She walked gracefully. Her figure was trim. She never slouched or scratched her head or chewed a pencil. She dressed modestly, as women should, and did not smoke. She was intelligent and clean, and impudent to the point of mild impertinence. She ought to be physically inviting; it was curious that she was not, yet he could feel no desire for her. Somehow the idea of putting his arms around her was disagreeable.

Those evenings when they worked later than usual he drove her home instead of letting her take the bus. She lived in an ugly gray building just off Valentine Road, sharing an apartment with a much older sister who was crippled by arthritis. Each time he drove her there he felt uncomfortable and obscurely guilty, and after watching until she was inside the door he continued toward Mission Hills with a sense of relief. Her misfortune was not his fault. The salary she got was comparable to what she could earn anywhere else, and every few months Mrs. Bridge invited her to the house for dinner.

Except for these occasions when he escorted Julia home he seldom thought about her. He did not know whom she was seeing at night, if anybody. He did not care. She might possibly be planning to get married, although she had given no hint of this. If she did decide to marry it would be all right, providing she did not have a baby.

These two women were growing around him like strands of ivy, but the feeling of entanglement was not disturbing; it seemed to him that these persistent female tendrils were supporting and assisting him.

Around dinnertime it usually occurred to Mr. Bridge that there were, in fact, three women on whom he depended and Harriet was not the least of them. She was such a marvelous cook that he resented the occasions when he and Mrs. Bridge were invited out. There were traces of the South in her cooking. Such dishes as jambalaya appeared on the table, and frequently she served barbecued ribs which he loved with a love he held for very few things on earth. She could prepare sugar-cured ham with red-eye gravy far better than any restaurant, and hot biscuits and honey, and turnips which tasted like no other turnips, and candied yams with the flavor of marshmallow. She never used a cookbook. She knew. Sometimes while he was eating he would torment himself by trying to decide whether Harriet or Julia was more indispensable.

Every night he looked forward to his dinner and he was sorry when Thursday came around, which was Harriet’s night off. On Thursday there was apt to be macaroni casserole, or leftovers from Wednesday.