Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

But on the next attempt he missed and felt something definite happen to his spine, and right then he decided that what he was doing was ridiculous. He did not think he had hurt himself, but he did not intend to swing the bat again. “I’m sorry, boys,” he called, “I’m afraid you’ll have to get somebody else.” There was not much point in trying to explain. It would sound like an excuse.

Douglas walked part of the way toward him and said, “I guess the rest of us are going to stay out here and take turns a while. Anyway, thanks a lot.”

“We’re having an early supper,” Mr. Bridge said. “Don’t stay too long.” He leaned the bat against a tree, waved good-by to the players, and started toward the house. On the way he experimented with his spine, bending slightly forward and turning cautiously from side to side.

“Home so soon?” Mrs. Bridge asked as he came in the door.

He eased himself into a chair and took off his glasses. “Yes. It’s been too many years. I tried to tell Douglas, but he kept insisting.”

She smiled. “I’ll bet it did you loads of good.”

“No, it did not do me loads of good,” he answered sharply. “I embarrassed him in front of his friends. I knew this would happen. I tried to tell him, but he refused to believe me.”

“Well, I doubt if it matters a great deal.”

“Oh, yes it does,” he said. “Yes, indeed it does. Make no mistake about that.”

“Really? I can’t see why.”

“You were never a boy. That’s why.”

Douglas spent most of his summer playing baseball, but he also took up boxing, and although he had mentioned this at home nobody thought much about it until he walked into the kitchen with a bruised eye and asked Harriet for a piece of beefsteak. Instead of giving him the steak Harriet reported the matter to Mrs. Bridge, who, after peering at the eye and tentatively touching the skin with her little finger, led him into the study where Mr. Bridge was at work. He, too, inspected the eye. Then he leaned back in his chair.

“Well, well, well,” he said, “you have what we used to call a ‘shiner.’ ”

“It’s awfully swollen,” Mrs. Bridge said. “Don’t you think we ought to call Dr. Stapp?”

“How does your eye feel?” Mr. Bridge asked.

Douglas said, “It’s not bad. I just want a piece of beefsteak.”

“And how did you happen to acquire this decoration?”

Douglas had explained to Harriet and then to his mother that he had been boxing in Tiptons’ garage with Huggins, the Tipton chauffeur. He thought it was unnecessary to explain again, but he did so because he knew that otherwise he would not get the steak. He had been boxing with Huggins and Huggins caught him with a left jab. That was all there was to it.

Mr. Bridge did not like the idea of his son boxing with somebody’s chauffeur. Douglas replied that he was not the only one. Bob Tipton and Rodney Vandermeer had also boxed with Huggins because they were having a round-robin tournament. Then he added that Huggins had given Rodney Vandermeer a bloody nose.

The smile disappeared from Mr. Bridge’s face. “Go on,” he said.

Douglas shrugged. There was nothing more to tell.

“Whose idea was this tournament?”

“Mine. We were just going to have it with three of us, but after Huggins finished washing the car he was sitting around watching, so we invited him to join. He didn’t want to at first, but finally we talked him into it.”

“This was your idea?”

He grinned. “Yeh. It sure was some bright idea. Huggins really has got a left. But Tipton got pasted harder than either one of us — he almost got knocked colder than a cucumber. He was weaving around all over the garage like he was punch drunk.”

“Where is this man now?”

“Who?”

Mr. Bridge gestured with annoyance. “The chauffeur.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t live at Tiptons’, so maybe he’s gone home. Or maybe he’s still there. How the heck am I supposed to know? Anyway, what’s the diff?”

“What’s the telephone number at that place?”

Douglas hesitated. He knew he had said something wrong. He could see that his father was angry but he could not guess exactly why. He thought it had something to do with the chauffeur. Plaintively he said, “It wasn’t Huggins’ fault, for cripes sake.”

“You have a nasty black eye, your friend Rodney had his nose bloodied, and the Tipton boy was nearly knocked unconscious. I have heard more than enough. If you know the Tiptons’ telephone number, give it to me. If you don’t, I will look it up.”

“Wait a minute,” Douglas said. “Will you please kindly relax and listen a minute?”

“Be quick about it.”

“Huggins didn’t smack Tipton. Rodney did.”

“Let me get this straight. The Tipton boy was almost knocked unconscious. Who hit him?”

“I just told you. Rodney. Rod got him with an uppercut.”

“I see. But your friend Tipton also boxed with the chauffeur, is that correct?”

“Sure, because that’s what a round-robin means. Everybody’s got to box against everybody else. How many times do I have to explain? Only they didn’t do much except spar around. They hardly touched each other. Huggins didn’t have anything at all to do with Tipton practically getting kayoed. I mean, for cripes sake, if you don’t get it by this time I give up.”

He was telling the truth, there could be no doubt of it; even so, Mr. Bridge was not satisfied. The fact that the third boy had not been injured by the chauffeur seemed to indicate that the man was not deliberately trying to hurt them. At the same time it was all very suspect. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Not one bit.”

“Holy cow! If you’re going to box you sort of expect to get pasted on the kisser once in a while, unless you’re some sort of professional world’s champ.”

“I certainly don’t like it either,” Mrs. Bridge said.

Douglas sighed. “Nobody was trying to kill anybody. We were all kind of pulling our punches, only once in a while like I just said there’s sometimes you can’t help getting one square in the kisser. You should have seen the one I landed on Vandermeer’s breadbasket. It knocked the wind clear out of him. He was doubled over for about ten minutes.”

Mr. Bridge rocked around in his chair while he considered. Finally he said, “It sounds to me as though this business got completely out of hand.”

“Maybe. Sort of,” Douglas agreed.

“Now, you listen to me. If you want to box with your friends — with boys of your own age and size — I have no objection. But no more of this black-eye bloody-nose nonsense, do you understand? And absolutely no further boxing with that chauffeur. Or with any other servant under any circumstances. Is that clear? Do you hear me?”

“I’d have to be pretty deaf not to.”

“Very well. Suppose we drop the matter. And now I have some work to do.”

“Uh, well. .” Douglas said.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Can you tell Harriet to let me have a piece of beefsteak?”

“If you are convinced that’s what you need, all right.”

After Douglas had left the study Mrs. Bridge asked if the meat would do much good, and Mr. Bridge replied that he did not think so.

Looking through the bills at the first of the month he noted that Douglas had charged eight Bing Crosby records at the Plaza music store. He mentioned this to his wife.

“Really?” she said. “Why, he oughtn’t to be doing that. I’ll speak to him. After all, he does get an allowance. He can pay you back.”

“Never mind, it isn’t important,” he said, and opened another envelope.