Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“Anyhow,” he said, “it didn’t sink.”

“And it’s the prettiest one here,” said his mother as she slipped an arm around his waist.

Fifteen minutes later the boat had drifted halfway to the south end of the pond, but no closer to either shore. Mr. and Mrs. Bridge and Douglas followed it.

“Lots of them didn’t get across,” she said.

But the boat heard this and faced them with sails flapping in vast astonishment.

“I’m just sure it’ll come back before much longer,” she said.

Douglas answered quietly. “Sooner or later.”

So they waited, watching other boats that drifted around the pond, and commented on these; and they looked at the boats floating on one side dead in the water as if they had been torpedoed, and at the white keels standing up here and there like freshly painted tombstones.

“I guess a couple went down,” Douglas said.

“Oh, what a shame,” his mother replied. She took off his crown and smoothed the tangled hair with her fingers and set the crown back on his head.

Then, against the dying breeze, out of some magical perversity with which it may or may not have been imbued by the spirit of its maker, the boat that Douglas built was seen to come to life. With both sails bent and full, and the pennant fluttering as though some ancient mariner at the helm could not rest until the journey ended, the marvelous boat bore straight toward them.

“Here it comes,” Mrs. Bridge cried, and she clapped her hands.

Douglas nodded.

They watched, and as it approached them the boat sailed more cautiously; yet there was no doubt that it intended to reach the shore.

Mr. Bridge asked Douglas if he was hungry.

“Hungry?” he answered without looking up.

“I was thinking that after your boat comes in the three of us might go somewhere for a banana split.”

“All right,” Douglas said. He knelt on the bank to wait.

Mr. Bridge felt guilty about the boat race even though he knew he was not responsible for that melancholy afternoon. He did not know why he felt a sense of guilt, but he could not escape from it, and it caused him to attempt something which he realized was foolish. For weeks Douglas had been after him to get out into the middle of the street with a baseball bat and hit a few grounders for the benefit of Rodney Vandermeer. Rodney Vandermeer’s father had been a semiprofessional ballplayer and was in the habit of knocking the ball around for his son and Douglas and Bobby Tipton and any other neighborhood children who cared to play. Douglas therefore, was anxious to demonstrate that his father was equally handy with a bat.

Mr. Bridge could not remember the last time he had hit a baseball. He thought it had been at least twenty years ago. He had used every excuse he could think of to avoid making a spectacle of himself in the middle of the street. He had hoped to get through the summer, and perhaps by the following summer Douglas would abandon the idea; but not long after the boat race, when Douglas once again brought up the subject, he succumbed. Very reluctantly he accepted the bat, and after a last desperate look at his wife he followed his son out the door.

The bat felt exceedingly strange in his hand. The weight of it, and the smooth little handle. He read the trademark. He waved the bat in small tentative circles as they proceeded to the street. He knew he should expect a bad half-hour. The important thing, of course, was to hit the ball. He would not be expected to hit it farther than the Vandermeer boy’s father. Neither of the boys would be expecting that.

Douglas shouted “Here he is!” and Mr. Bridge saw not only Rodney Vandermeer but three other boys sprawled in the shade of an oak. Just then another boy dropped out of the tree, where he had been hanging from a limb like a sloth. Mr. Bridge saw the five boys scrutinizing him as though never in their lives had they observed anything so remarkable.

Douglas ran to join them, leaving him with the bat and ball.

The boys were getting to their feet without enthusiasm, and one of them was looking at him with absolute contempt. He thought there was something wrong with the boy’s joints, because he stood as though he was made of rubber. He was a round-shouldered, bandy-legged boy with a face like a sheep. He was chewing a twig. A first baseman’s glove dangled from his left hand, slowly opening and shutting like a lobster’s claw.

Douglas yelled, “Okay, Dad!”

The boys wandered into the street. Rather indolently they took up their positions. They were not excited. They just stood in the street and waited.

Mr. Bridge considered the ball. It occurred to him for the first time that the ball was not going to be pitched to him. He was supposed to toss it in the air and hit it as it dropped. He remembered doing this when he was a boy, but now he was not sure which hand held the bat and which hand tossed the ball. He decided to toss the ball with his right hand, and if that did not work he would try it next time with his left hand.

“Rod, you take the first one,” Douglas said very clearly.

Mr. Bridge tossed the ball into the air and clutched at the bat with both hands. The ball dropped to the ground sooner than he expected.

“Okay,” Douglas said, smacking his fist into his glove. “Any time you’re ready, Dad.”

Mr. Bridge did not want to look at the peculiar boy, but he could not help himself. The boy was simply resting on those spidery legs. There was no sign of intelligence on his face.

“Give us a high fly,” Douglas called, and sank into a crouching position with his hands on his knees to show that he was prepared to leap in any direction. The other boys stood in a row. Their attitude was respectful but they were not particularly alert.

Mr. Bridge tossed the ball into the air again, higher this time so that he would be ready when it came down, and as it came down he chopped at it and felt a quick pain in one wrist while the ball dropped between his feet like a dead bird.

Douglas was silent. The street was silent. There was not a sound.

Mr. Bridge worked his wrist to see if it had been injured. It was all right, so there was nothing to do but try again. This time, with a sense of unspeakable relief, he hit the ball. It went bouncing up the street, Douglas screamed “Take it, Clyde!” and with a feeling of horror he realized that the strange boy was Clyde.

The ball rolled up to Clyde. There it stopped. Clyde leaned over, scooped the ball into his glove, and with a practiced flip sent it arching down the street. Mr. Bridge dropped the bat, and as it struck the concrete he knew he should not have dropped it; too late he remembered that it was all right to drop a bat on a playing field but never on concrete. But there was no time to look after the bat, because the ball was almost upon him. It bounced once and hit him in the chest.

“Give us another grounder,” Douglas shouted. Obviously he had concluded there was no chance of a spectacular high fly.

Mr. Bridge swung again and the ball went hopping up the street toward Douglas, but Douglas pretended to be unable to judge it and screamed for another boy to handle it. This was easily done. Once more the ball came flying back and he managed to stop it with his foot.

Now, with two out of three to his credit — not counting the time he had neglected to swing — he began to feel more confident, and after another grounder he contrived to hit the ball some distance in the air. It did not get as far as any of the players, but still it did show improvement; Rodney Vandermeer fielded it and popped it into his glove several times, which Mr. Bridge interpreted as a compliment. He laughed and waved at the boys to move backward. It seemed to him that all he had needed was a little practice. He was convinced that he could hit the ball regularly. Very soon he ought to be able to hit a long high one.