Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

The annual dinner, therefore, was an evening to be dreaded. Three hours in the man’s company was suffocating. How or why the custom had started, he could not remember. The minister’s salary no doubt was small, so he did not eat well, and presumably he very often ate alone; perhaps for some such reasons Mrs. Bridge pitied him and invited him to dinner. It seemed altogether unnecessary. The man had chosen that sort of life. If that was what he wanted let him have it.

But he said nothing, and each year when his wife reminded him that Dr. Foster was coming to dinner again on a certain evening he merely nodded. If only the minister held some violent prejudice, no matter how preposterous, then at least he would be worth talking to. But he had no prejudice, or if he did he had buried it beneath a haystack of piety. Indeed, he was so careful not to offend anybody that he seldom offered an opinion about anything; and whatever he said, he qualified, chuckling and coughing into his fist. Bland was the word for him. He was a fifty-year-old Boy Scout. He had no more sinew than a dish of custard. He could no more be despised or hated than he could be loved or respected. He was a cross to be borne when necessary and avoided whenever possible. His ingenuous neutrality was disgusting, but principally he was a bore, that was all. He was such a bore that he was careful never to talk about himself, always about what he supposed must be interesting to other people. Sports and politics ought to interest a man, so each time he came to dinner he tried out these topics. Then he tried gardening, antique collecting, silverware, church social activities, charity drives, and P.T.A. with Mrs. Bridge. And, predictably, he made a great point of talking to the children. The only thing to be grateful for was that he had enough decency to refrain from mentioning religion.

Three hours of this once a year should not be unbearable, but certain years it was, and Mr. Bridge weakened before ten o’clock and retreated to the bedroom with the excuse that he had to get up early. There he would change into his pajamas, brush his teeth, put on his reading glasses, and settle himself in bed with a mystery or with the stock market reports until the noise of the front door closing told him that Dr. Foster was gone for another year.

One evening not long after Dr. Foster’s annual visit Mr. Bridge came home later than usual and was met at the back door by his wife, who said, “We decided to begin. I hope you don’t object. The children were starved.”

In a tired voice he answered that he had expected to get away from the office earlier.

“You sound utterly exhausted,” she remarked as she untied her apron. “I really am going to call up Julia and give her strict orders to stop loading you with so much work. Goodness knows other men don’t keep these hours.”

For years she had been threatening to call Julia — as though Julia had anything to do with it. Julia, no doubt, would have been happy to work shorter hours.

“What’s become of Harriet?” he asked.

“She wanted tonight off instead of Thursday. There’s some sort of a big ‘do,’ I gather. She was all dolled up. A man came by for her a little while ago.”

“Does she still run around with that fellow on a motorcycle?”

“This one had a car. I don’t know if it’s the same one or not, I didn’t see his face. He just tooted for her, and away they went.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Macaroni casserole. And fruit salad for dessert.”

He tried to conceal his dismay. He wondered if Harriet could be persuaded to give up her night off in exchange for a raise in salary.

“All right. Fix me a scotch,” he said, and went upstairs to wash his face and change clothes. When he came down and walked into the dining room he was saluted by his son.

“Oh-ho,” cried Douglas, “guess what the cat drug in!”

“Shut up, you simpleton,” Carolyn said.

“Now, now, both of you,” Mrs. Bridge interrupted. And to Douglas she said, “That’s hardly the way to speak to your father.”

“Mother,” Ruth said, holding her head with both hands, “the way you keep after him it’s no wonder. He was just trying to be funny. Is that such a dreadful crime?”

“He’s got a stupid sense of humor,” Carolyn said. “He’s a complete dolt.”

Mr. Bridge listened indulgently. He was pleased to hear their voices and to see their faces; it was for them he had spent these long days at work, and because he heard the affection beneath their bickering he did not mind how they pretended to insult each other.

“Make a pile of dough today?” Douglas was asking.

“Not enough to keep you properly clothed, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, and that shirt isn’t six months old!” said Mrs. Bridge, who had followed his glance.

“Yuk, yuk, yuk,” Douglas said, stretching his arms above his head to show how short the sleeves were.

“Unanimously voted most likely to flunk,” said Carolyn.

“Daddy, how was the day?” Ruth asked.

“I doubt if my days interest anybody at this table,” he laughed.

“Now, you know that isn’t true,” Mrs. Bridge said, pretending to scold. “We all care about your work. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked, and the children too, but getting information out of you is like pulling teeth.

“It’s a fact, Pop, it’s a fact,” Douglas said.

He noticed that the girls, prompted by their mother’s question, were watching him politely; he suspected that all three of the children had been told to show some interest.

“Well,” he said, “since you ask, more of the same. There is a Latin phrase which pretty well sums up the situation: Unius dementia dementes efficit multos .” He smiled at Ruth, who was studying Latin at school, but she was suddenly busy with her food. And in a little while the conversation had turned to other things.

He sipped the drink, feeling too tired to eat, and wondered why he could not talk to the family about his work. At first when the children were small it was not possible, but now? What was there to say? They had asked, it was true. And whenever they asked, whether the questions were sincere or not, he had answered elliptically, turned the offer into an ironic joke. Why? He knew that he did want to confide in the family. Now they were asking. Why had he rejected the chance? He felt that he was close to understanding; then something intervened like a shade drawn down. After all, they could not possibly care about the testimony of a streetcar conductor involved in a traffic accident on the eighteenth of September of last year. The exchange with Judge Hibler made little sense out of context. Or Julia’s observation about the mechanic with the infected tattoo. None of this would make sense at the dinner table. They might listen, but it would be a strain.

No. No, he thought, as he peered into his glass, there is almost nothing I can say to them. My life is cut in half. The halves remain side by side in perfect equilibrium like halves of a melon. I suppose the same is true of most men. Or are they somehow unlike me? Are they able to share themselves?

The question was familiar. He had asked it many times.

I know very little about other men, he thought, although I go through life assuming that I do. I know only myself, but I do believe I know myself. What I am, as well as what I am not, I think I know, even if I may not know exactly what I would like to be. In any case, whatever I feel or think or see or believe is a consequence of my own sensibility, not that of some other man. I believe what I believe, and I have not yet believed a single thing only because it was believed by others, nor do I intend to. I can be grateful for this, at least: that I have kept myself. I have not once dressed up in a costume. There may be stronger consolations, but not many. Be that as it may, I cannot live differently than I do. Whatever the reasons for this, good or bad, they exist. Evidently that is enough. So, early tomorrow, I must get up again to do what I have done today. I will get up early to do this, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and there is nothing to discuss.